


Last Hope

by RickWoman



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, F/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Rise of Voldemort, Time Travel, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickWoman/pseuds/RickWoman
Summary: The unimaginable has occurred: Voldemort has successfully overthrown the Wizarding World. Left with no alternative, Professor Dumbledore sends Hermione Granger into the past with the task to change their devastating future. Will she be able to navigate the pitfalls of time travel before the hourglass runs out?





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> This is a time-turner story that has been bouncing around my head for several months. There are a couple of things to be aware of. First, this is written in two timelines for past and present Hermione. To avoid any confusion, the future Hermione’s story begins in 1995, while we take a look at her past self in 1998 (edit: changed from 1996). It should become easier to identify as we go on. Second, while there is a theme of torture, no rape has been written into this fic whatsoever. I recognise that an absence of dub- or non-con, whether implied or graphic, is unrealistic in this setting; however, I would like to avoid triggering any victims/survivors of sexual assault as much as possible.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it!

_April 1995_

“There was a mole,” she said quietly, her eyes trained to the floor. “They divulged the nature of Severus’ role in the Order to You-Know-Who. There was no warning, no indication that he had been compromised; he just vanished.” She wrapped her arms tightly about her middle and squeezed her eyes shut. With a quivering voice, “When You-Know-Who’s lackeys were sent to gloat, we knew all was lost.”

The room was deadly silent; her breathing felt unbearably loud to her own ears. Hermione swiped a palm over her cheek, wiping away an offending tear. “We knew they would come for me next. Severus hadn’t broken under their _ministrations_ ,” she spat hatefully, “and the Death Eaters believed I would loosen his tongue. We thought ourselves prepared because we expected them.” She laughed humourlessly, “How naïve we were.”

Alastor Moody scoffed loudly, “Why would Snape betray the Order for the likes of you, eh, Granger?”

“As his wife, I was considered prime leverage.”

Professor Snape pushed back violently from the table; the screech of the wood against tile set Hermione’s teeth on edge. “Enough! I will not allow you to humiliate me any longer! Is this a game to you, Miss Granger? Did Potter and Weasley put you up to an elaborate prank to torment your greasy Professor?”

She shrank away from him as he advanced towards her, “No, please…”

“Severus,” Professor Dumbledore said firmly, “sit down, please. When Miss Granger is finished, we will address your concerns. Until then, however…”

With ill grace, the Potions Master returned to his chair and crossed his arms, a look of barely concealed rage on his face.

At the Headmaster’s prompting, Hermione continued, “He didn’t break, of course; he was too strong for that.” She waved her hand in front of her face, cancelling the glamour she wore, and cringed at the audible gasps from those about her. She caught Snape’s wince just before he looked away and felt her heart clench. “No, it was me. I was weak.”

Hand over heart, Professor McGonagall gasped, “Miss Granger, what did they do to you?”

“I don’t remember everything, which I suppose I ought to be grateful for. What memories I do have, have blended together now, rather like one continuous beating.” She spoke in a detached, clinical voice, as if she were reciting a phonebook. “I know they expected me to fall apart immediately and, as such, were remarkably restrained in doling out torture at first. It grew progressively more sadistic as they tired of me, however. Rowle and Yaxley were especially passionate.

“Finally, they lost their patience and changed tactics. They,” she swallowed thickly, “would make me watch as they tortured Severus.” She dropped her head to her hands and rocked herself back and forth, her voice rising in pitch. “I tried to keep it together, but I couldn’t… couldn’t watch. I tried to keep everyone safe, but…” she trailed off. She startled when a hand came to rest on her shoulder and she shrieked in surprise, curling into herself.

“There now, dear,” Molly Weasley shushed the young woman gently, “you’re all right. Carry on best you can.”

“Sorry,” Hermione whispered. “Rowle was especially keen to keep me abreast of all the Order members they had captured and killed. From what I understand, their deaths were a lot faster and more humane than the ones Severus and I were sentenced to. If nothing else, I was grateful for that.

“It wasn’t enough for them, though; despite their best efforts, they couldn’t find Ron and Harry. Given that Severus and I took the brunt of their frustrations, I knew immediately that they would kill us, and without mercy.” When Molly’s arms tightened about her shoulders, Hermione crumpled and wept, wracking sobs jostling her so hard that she could barely breathe. In between the wave of tears, she stammered, “I had all but resigned m-myself to my death when a house-elf breached the wards and r-rescued me.”

“What of Severus?” Professor Dumbledore inquired in a grave tone.

Hermione looked away and croaked, “He was not long for death; he had served his purpose by then.” She took a deep breath, “The elf, Tully I think her name was, said that your portrait had sent her to get me. I didn’t think it safe; You-Know-Who had infiltrated the school with several of his Death Eaters and sympathisers. Augustus Rookwood was liberated from Azkaban shortly after the fall of Hogwarts and was appointed to the position of Headmaster.

“Nevertheless, I was assured that we would not be disturbed; at your portrait’s request, the elves had drugged his meal and he would have been unlikely to wake for several hours.”

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, “I was unaware that the elves obeyed orders from portraits.”

The younger woman shrugged, “They don’t typically, I suppose; however, Tully said that the house-elves, and Hogwarts itself, did not recognise the Death Eaters as legitimate staff. They considered Professor Dumbledore the official Head and, as such, obeyed whatever he asked of them. As consequence, I suspect the portraits will not reside in the Headmaster’s study for much longer; I was told they were particularly riotous with the new appointment.”

“What had Albus wanted?” Professor McGonagall spoke again.

Hermione hesitated and averted her eyes to the wall ahead of her, “He had been working on a prototype for a time-turner that would allow the user to travel back in year increments. It wasn’t perfect, and the time-jumps were haphazard at best, but he insisted that I was the only hope to change the future we were condemned to.” Her expression darkened, “He was blissfully unaware, I suppose, that I was the cause.”

Molly tutted and interrupted her, “Never mind that now. A healer ought to look at all of these wounds, dear.” She waved off the frightened protests and looked to Dumbledore for approval, “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but, though the Death Eaters didn’t manage to kill her, these injuries might. She needs help immediately.”

The Headmaster nodded sagely behind steepled fingers. “I agree. We can continue this avenue of conversation when you are healed, Miss Granger.”

“Just a second,” Moody growled, “but who do you suggest treat her? Granger is too recognisable, and news would travel fast, no doubt. It’s not safe to have anyone look at her.”

“I suggest we enlist Madam Pomfrey’s help in this regard,” Professor Dumbledore replied, ignoring Molly’s indignant disapproval. “After all, she treated Severus all these years without incident.”

“And what, precisely, do we tell her?”

“As little as possible,” Professor Snape spoke with a sneer. “For one, mention of impossible time-turners should be avoided at all costs. The lot of us will be carted off to the Janus Thickey ward if we are not careful. _If_ she is to be believed, and that is a generous if, she has irrevocably changed our futures with this conversation alone; we need to be more careful. The rules of time-travel still apply, in spite of Miss Granger’s flagrant disregard of them.”

Hermione shrugged out of Molly’s grasp, “And it _should_ be changed! That future, if it could so be called, is not one we will survive!”

“Yes, like you said, because of you.”

“Severus!” Professor McGonagall’s shrill voice rang through the room. “How dare you talk to her like that!”

“How dare I? How dare I be the only rational one in this room?” He swivelled his head in Hermione’s direction, “Listen to yourself! Time-turners that can jump _years_ in the past that just conveniently came into your possession? A daring rescue by way of a house-elf? Us, _married_? As I understand it, Little Miss Granger could not stand being the less important, less interesting member of the Golden Trio and fabricated this little tale so that she would not feel left out.”

Hermione reared back as though she had been slapped. “How can you be this hateful?” She gestured to the wounds over her body, “Do you honestly think I went through this much trouble just to seek attention?”

“Only you can know yourself, Miss Granger.”

Incensed, Hermione snarled, “That’s Mistress-fucking-Snape to you, Severus. I will not allow you to talk to me like that!”

“Address me like that again, _Miss Granger_ , and I will make your life exceedingly difficult.”

With a feigned sense of bravado, she snorted, “You don’t frighten me, Severus. After all, ‘through struggle we persevere,’ don’t we?”

“What did you just say to me?” he hissed, eyes narrowed to slits.

Hermione lifted her chin defiantly, “You heard me. Shortly after we married, you had me memorise that poem from your childhood as an extra measure of security. Admittedly, I believed you overly paranoid at the time; I see now that we were not nearly paranoid enough.”

“How did you find out about that? Did you or one of your little friends break into my house?”

She wrinkled her nose in frustration, “That’s a bit of a stretch, Severus, even for you.” Suddenly looking decades too old, Hermione sighed tiredly and said, “Look, I can understand your hesitation to trust me, or anyone. Under normal circumstances, I might even have encouraged it; however, it is imperative that you trust me now. I can’t do this without you.” After a pause, “Just… use _Legilimency_. We both know you won’t be satisfied until you’ve tried.”

“Absolutely not!” Professor McGonagall interrupted firmly. “This girl needs a healer and I will not have you manhandling her like some big oaf, Severus.”

“I beg your–”

“Haud yer wheesht!”

Stunned, Snape’s mouth snapped shut with an audible clack.

“Albus,” the older woman turned to the Headmaster, “are we to take Miss Granger to Poppy directly or have her come here?”

“If we want to keep Miss Granger contained to the five of us, it would not be in our best interests to keep her here. The risk of other Order members finding her would be too high.” The Headmaster tapped a finger against his chin and nodded towards the Potions Master. “Severus, I suspect it a very small likelihood that she would be discovered in your accommodations. Would you be willing to house Miss Granger until we find another alternative? Once she is healed, of course.”

“Really now, Albus,” the Transfiguration Professor started, “surely I can–”

“Your rooms see far too much traffic, Minerva, making it a risk I am unwilling to entertain. Severus, what say you?”

To all present, it was glaringly obvious that it took everything in Professor Snape’s power not to assault the Headmaster in some fashion. Through gritted teeth, he relented, “As my leader commands me.”

Professor Dumbledore clapped his hands together once, “Splendid! Well, Minerva, if you would be so kind as to Floo Poppy.”

“Certainly, Albus.” The older woman placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder as she walked by and squeezed lightly. “You’ll be all right now, Miss Granger.”

Hermione gave her a watery smile in return before addressing the Headmaster. “I know how difficult this is to believe but thank you.”

“Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, ushering the young woman towards the Floo, “I saw your younger self not a few minutes before you arrived. Though you are an undoubtedly talented and powerful witch, Miss Granger, such a change in appearance was rather drastic. Pray, what is your age?”

“I’m twenty-two, sir.”

“Ah, a six-year time leap? I must wonder after your choice to go so far back in time.”

Hermione ducked her head in embarrassment, “It was an accident, sir. I panicked and toggled the time-turner before I was certain of the distance it would take me.” At Snape’s snort, Hermione’s cheeks burned brightly, and she scrubbed her hands over her face. Determined to ignore him, she muttered, “A world without goodness is no world at all, Headmaster. If I have to break every time-travel rule in existence to avoid such a fate, I will.”

“I agree, Miss Granger. I believe you.”

“Albus!” Professor McGonagall called, gesturing for the pair to join her. “Poppy is ready. She has locked and warded the hospital wing, so Miss Granger is safe to come through.”

Professor Dumbledore tapped Hermione on the shoulder, urging her forward, “Well, you heard her. Come along.”

* * *

“Good gracious! What on earth have you done to yourself?” a shrill voice bounced off the walls of the hospital wing. The school matron hurried over, all but dragging Hermione to one of the cots. “Sit,” she instructed tersely and began a series of complicated diagnostic charms. As she worked, the frown between her brows deepened and she pulled away with a decidedly pinched look on her face.

“You should have come to see me immediately! Amongst the worst injuries are a severe concussion, fractured clavicle, torn tendon at the elbow, two broken ribs, a punctured lung,” here she tutted disapprovingly, “bruised liver, fractured femur, torn ACL tendon, four fractured toes, and severe malnutrition. It’s little wonder you’re even able to speak! Do you realise, Miss Granger, that a number of these injuries could have killed you!”

“It’s not as though I could help it,” Hermione muttered petulantly.

Ignoring her, the mediwitch disappeared to rummage through the storage room, the sound of clinking bottles following in her wake. When she returned, several beakers drifting behind her, she addressed the young woman in a no-nonsense tone, “Right, you’ll need a few doses of Skele-Gro, bruise paste, Murtlap Essence for those cuts, something to clear that wound over there,” she waved her hand over Hermione’s chest, “and a sleeping draught.”

Upon administering some truly vile potions, Madam Pomfrey cast a _Ferula_ spell, binding and splinting Hermione’s limbs tightly. One by one, each wound was sanitised and closed until the mediwitch gave a satisfied nod. With a final flick of her wand, the empty beakers and used supplies vanished from sight. “I’m going to give you a dose of Dreamless Sleep to knock you out while the Skele-Gro does its work. Your body needs time to heal, so you are not to leave that bed until I give you the go-ahead. Do you understand?”

Hermione nodded and squeaked out a pathetic ‘ _yes_.’ She swallowed the last potion with a grimace and lay back on the pillows, waiting for sleep to claim her.

“Thank you, Poppy,” Dumbledore spoke at last, taking his spectacles from his nose and cleaning them on his robes. “As always, we are indebted to you.”

“Yes, well,” she sniffed and wiped her palms over her apron. “When you have a moment, Albus, I require an explanation.”

“Of course, Poppy,” he dipped his head.

“Right! The rest of you need to leave; I don’t want anyone harassing my patient. Severus, that includes you too. Out!”

When all but two remained, the Headmaster motioned for Madam Pomfrey to follow him and they, too, left Hermione to sleep. In the darkness, the silence was deafening. Hermione stared at the ceiling, unseeing, as flickers of memories danced behind her eyes. Though her body felt heavy and sluggish, she fought the impending slumber; she felt ill prepared to confront the demons that emerged as she slept.

“How weak it is to be so affected by dreams,” she whispered aloud, feeling foolish.

It was true that nightmares had plagued her in the past, each changing – evolving – into something more terrifying than the last; however, she had always known that they were _not real_. But, as time dragged on, doubts emerged; the wisps of dreams were becoming tangible, almost indistinguishable from her waking hours. _“You know, you really should learn to tell the difference between dreams and reality…”_

A sudden feeling of foreboding gripped her and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Something was watching her, waiting. With great difficulty, she manoeuvred herself upright, her heart slamming in her chest.

_There, outside._

Without thinking, she swung her legs out of bed and hobbled to the front doors of the infirmary. The corridor ahead was shrouded in a darkness that seemed to creep towards her. Closer, closer, it quietly consumed all that it touched. As it bore down on her, she was struck with a horrifying thought – _it was coming for her_. Her mind screamed at her to run, but her legs were rooted to the ground as if weighted by concrete. Her breaths were now coming in short, shallow bursts and prickles of light danced in her vision. She could feel them on her now – the eyes – and it made her skin crawl in fear.

 _Move Hermione_ , her mind pleaded, _move!_

The darkness swirled around her legs and inched up her skin, searing her flesh as it went. It twisted about her chest and squeezed, forcing the air from her lungs. It was becoming too dark to see and she shut her eyes, desperately hoping for the end. Slowly, a welcome numbness washed over her extremities, dousing the raging fire that burned beneath her skin.

The blackness could sense her weaken and knew, of course, that she was resigning herself to the inevitable. The sound of her pulse slowed in her ears and she breathed a small sigh of relief; it would all be over soon.

* * *

A bloodcurdling scream rang through the hospital wing, shocking Hermione awake. The screams were becoming louder, more insistent, and it took her far too long to realise that they were her own. Her heart thundered in her chest and she shot out of bed, confused and panicked.

_Darkness._

“Miss Granger! Get back into that bed, immediately!”

 _Pain_.

“Stupid girl, do as you are told.”

_Fear._

“Where is it!” she shrieked, looking around frantically. “I know it’s here! I can still feel it.”

Two hands clamped down on her shoulders and spun her around, “Miss Granger, we need you to calm down and get back into that bed.” Near black eyes bore into her own, “If you do not comply, I will drag you back and gladly knock you out myself. Do you understand?”

She gave a weak nod and allowed herself to be steered back to her cot. In a daze, Hermione looked about her, shocked by the sunlight streaming through the infirmary windows. _Was it really daytime already?_

“B-But…” she stammered.

“What is it, Miss Granger?” asked Professor Dumbledore.

“It’s nothing,” she mumbled, brow crinkling, “my mistake.”

He peered at her over his half-moon spectacles, “How are you feeling this morning?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

“Last night, I convened with Severus and we discussed your offer to have _Legilimency_ performed on you. Both he and I are of the opinion that it would be the least traumatic way for you to relay information. Would you be up to Severus performing the spell? If not, I would be happy to assist you instead.”

She shook her head and swallowed thickly before speaking, “No. I’d prefer it if Severus did it.”

Professor Snape raised his eyebrow, “Very well.” He walked to Hermione’s side, pulling a chair behind him. “I assume you know how this works, Miss Granger?”

“Yes.”

He raised his wand towards her, frowning as she flinched, and cast the nonverbal _Legilimens_.


	2. Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all is as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that this story will be roughly around 30-40 chapters, with each alternating chapter addressing a different timeline. This would be our first look at past Hermione! 
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I make no money off of this; I just play in the sandbox. I also don't have a Beta, so all mistakes are my own. Finally, I quoted Mary Elizabeth Frye's poem, "Do not stand at my grave and weep."
> 
> Enjoy!

_June 1998_

With her face upturned and eyes shut, a young woman stood before a lake, bathing in the warm rays of the mid-afternoon sun. Strands of curly hair danced about her face, catching the light in shades of copper and bronze. The overpowering smell of brine and wet earth hung where she stood; she inhaled deeply and opened her eyes, squinting at the light reflected off the water.

Sparing a glance over her shoulder, the woman walked to the shoreline and kicked off her shoes, dipping her feet into the lake’s murky depths. The water, still frigid in spite of the warm weather, lapped her ankles in gentle waves. Rolling her skirt at the waist, she waded in until the water settled about her thighs. She skimmed her fingers across the dark surface and allowed the tension to seep from her shoulders.

Out here, there were no expectations to be the infallible heroine as romanticised by the _Daily Prophet_. There was no one to offer hollow condolences for the death of her parents and no one to force their pity on her. In this brief respite by the Black Lake, she was free to be Hermione Granger: a frightened, vulnerable girl, unsure of how to navigate this world at war.

The battle inside the Department of Mysteries had been the tipping point for the war. Enraged by the loss of his coveted prophecy, Voldemort had retaliated with brutal force, equal parts terrifying and unpredictable. Like the First Wizarding War, some of the loudest voices of opposition, in both the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix, had vanished. The Ministry, in an effort to curtail mass hysteria, actively censored the media and pushed pro-government rhetoric with the hopes of lessening the public’s growing unease.

Despite his best efforts, the Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, lost traction with his citizens as underground publications rapidly gained popularity. When the war between truth and propaganda escalated, seeds of a rebellion were planted. Resentful of the abuse of power and lack of action against Voldemort, the people voiced their anger against their government in protests across Wizarding Britain. A spark of hatred, ignited by the Dark Lord himself, had fanned into a flame that threatened to burn the country to ashes.

Harry’s unprovoked assault on Draco Malfoy had been the final nail in the coffin. Voldemort struck out in the worst way imaginable: the immediate and ruthless execution of the Order’s most vulnerable. Amongst the fallen were Hermione’s own parents.

That Voldemort had had such far-reaching powers had been a troubling blow for the Order. Unwilling to risk the safety of the remaining members, the fallen were given a quiet, perfunctory burial in the garden of 12 Grimmauld Place.

_“Do not stand at my grave and cry,”_ she had said. _“I am not there. I did not die.”_

When the dead had nothing to say in return, Hermione shattered.

In the safety of Hogwarts’ halls, Hermione threw herself into her work. At first, it had been all too easy to resume the role of dedicated student. Burying herself beneath mountains of homework and revision had served, for a time, to mask the ever-growing, gaping hole inside of her. The harder she worked, she reasoned with herself, the less time she had to acknowledge the Grangers’ passing. For a short while, she had been able to convince even herself that everything was as it once was.

Beneath her façade, however, the grief festered, leaving her feeling raw and tormented. Constant nightmares of Death Eaters fuelled a hypervigilance that threatened to cripple her. One misstep and she would be carted in front of the Wizengamot for injuring a student who had startled her. The simple truth was that Hermione Granger had run aground and could find no means of escape.

There were those who had tried to help, of course; Harry, in particular had been the most persistent. That she could now draw parallels between his life and her own had been both distressing and comforting. The Weasleys, too, had been adamant that she had always been family and tried their best to make her feel loved and accepted.

The darkness, however, was loath to release her and she felt trapped in a pit of despair. The guilt over her parents’ demise ate at her until she felt reduced to a mere husk. It was her fault, you see: had she not been a witch, her parents would still be alive.

_“Voldemort killed them, Hermione!”_ Harry had insisted. _“Don’t do this to yourself; don’t make yourself the enemy!”_

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione screamed and spun around, wand firmly in hand, to see her Potions Professor on the shore behind her. “Professor Snape!” she panted. “I didn’t realise you were there!”

“Clearly. May I enquire as to what you are doing before I send Gryffindor to the leaving feast with negative points?”

A faint flush crept up from beneath Hermione’s school blouse. “I wanted to be alone, sir.” At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated, “To say goodbye to the school before I had to leave.”

“You wanted,” he paused, making her feel completely ridiculous, “to say goodbye.”

Hermione steeled herself and met his gaze. “Yes, to say goodbye. It’s not exactly unheard of, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said as she walked determinedly towards the shore. To her eternal mortification, she slid on her heel and took an undignified dip into the lake.

“Hoping to take home one last virus courtesy of the Black Lake, Miss Granger?” Snape asked as she emerged from the water.

“I hadn’t exactly planned on swimming in it!”

Despite himself, the edges of his lips twitched upwards, “That much is obvious.”

“Well, get on with it then, sir,” Hermione grumbled, pushing herself to her feet.

“I suspect that this will be punishment enough,” he snorted. As she went about righting her skirt and shoes, he added, “I received your application for an apprenticeship, Miss Granger. I do not typically accept applicants but was… persuaded to reconsider.”

She frowned, “Persuaded? By whom?

“The Headmaster considers your mastery in Potions essential to the war effort.”

“The–” she faltered, nonplussed. “How on earth does an apprenticeship benefit the war?”

“Far be it from me to guess at Professor Dumbledore’s motives, Miss Granger.”

“But that’s not fair! I don’t want you to feel forced into working with me!”

He sneered at her, “I take it you are no longer interested in pursuing Potions?”

She almost stamped her foot in frustration, “That’s obviously _not_ what I meant! I just wouldn’t want you to resent me!”

“You flatter yourself.”

A bell tolled in the distance, interrupting Hermione’s righteous indignation. “Very well, then, sir,” she tossed her hair with a huff and retreated from him, “I will see you at dinner.”

“Miss Granger,” he called after her, “perhaps you ought to dry yourself before we return.”

Aware that she painted a peculiar picture, she called over her shoulder, “All in due time, sir!”

“Then it shall be fifteen points from Gryffindor for inappropriate dress.” He smirked at her expression as she wheeled about to protest. “Come by my office at eight this evening to review the contract.”

“Fine,” she ground out, adding a belated ‘ _sir_ ’ as she resumed her walk to the castle.

When she reached the portrait to her common room, it struck her that her walk had been unusually fast. It was not until she wheezed a hello to the Head Boy, Ernie Macmillan, that she realised she had all but sprinted away from the Potions Master.

“You all right, Hermione?”

She nodded in his general direction and hurried to her room, slamming the door behind her. Dropping her head in her hands, she groaned loudly.

“Gods, how embarrassing,” she wailed, feeling herself blush anew. Tiredly, she peeled herself off her bedroom door and headed to her bathroom, coming to a halt in front of the mirror.

“My, you certainly look flushed, dear. Some foundation won’t go amiss.”

She ignored her reflection’s patronising tone, “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“Well, I never! Far be it from me to help an ugly duckling in need!”

Hermione shot the mirror a dark look and told it, in no uncertain terms, to scram before she blasted it of its perch.

“Bad luck, you know!” it shot back before quieting at the sight of a wand in its direction.

“Honestly,” Hermione started disapprovingly, “who really needs an opinionated mirror?”

Dropping her wand onto the countertop, she stripped and climbed into the shower, adjusting the water so that it was borderline scalding. Grabbing her body wash, she scrubbed herself raw, desperate to wash her humiliating encounter with Snape from her person. With little thought to comfort, she applied the same aggressive cleaning to her hair and stepped out of the shower only once her skin throbbed under the spray.

“Good gracious!” the mirror gasped aloud when it saw her. “Skin is meant to stay on the body!”

With an eyeroll, Hermione advanced on the mirror, “You’re far too dramatic for my tastes.”

“As is that colour on you! I say, red is terrible for your complexion.”

She grabbed her wand and pressed the tip against the glass, “As I imagine a _Reductor_ curse would be for yours.”

“Of all the students to end up with!”

She clutched at her chest, “My heart bleeds for you. Truly.”

“Fine! If you’re so determined to be bland, don’t let me stop you!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

“Hermione!”

Ron waved to her from the Gryffindor table and ushered her over. “There you are. We were worried you’d miss dinner.”

“At the rate you’re eating, Ronald, the won’t _be_ any left,” Ginny eyed him with disgust.

Ron narrowed his eyes and shoved an obscenely large bite of chicken into his mouth and chewed open-mouthed for added effect. “Shu’ up, ‘inny.”

Ginny gagged and pushed her plate away, “Merlin’s sakes, must you always be so revolting?”

“Sorry, time got away from me,” Hermione smiled apologetically and dropped onto the bench beside the group. Catching sight of Ron’s overstuffed mouth, her expression soured to one of revulsion. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to take smaller bites every now and then.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked, having swallowed the previous mouthful with reasonable difficulty.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny began, “keeping my appetite, for a start. If you’re running for the biggest pig at Hogwarts, Ronald, know that your talents are unequalled. You might even come in first place!”

Ron made to respond, but Ginny waved him off, interrupting, “So, mum’s invited you and Harry over to the Burrow for the summer holiday, Hermione. Everyone will be there, too. Charlie is home from Romania and Bill convinced the goblins to give him some time off work. Mum says Fred and George will be joining us as well, though she’s had no word from the unmentionable yet.”

“I’d love to, Gin, though it really depends on what Professor Snape has to say.”

“Oh, you must! Dad’s spent the last few weeks expanding the house to add extra bedrooms, so I doubt Mum will take no for an answer.”

“Snape?” Harry piped up, exchanging a puzzled look with Ron. “What does he have to do with anything?”

Despite her best efforts, Hermione’s cheeks started to warm. “ _Professor_ Snape accepted my application for the Potions apprenticeship. I need to meet him,” she cast a _Tempus_ charm, “in about forty minutes to discuss the contract.”

“You don’t think he’s going to keep you away, do you?” Ginny asked, clearly disappointed.

Hermione shrugged lightly, “I doubt it. In theory, I’m meant to start at the beginning of term with the rest of the school, but he might have a different plan. Best that I confirm it with him this evening.”

“I’m surprised,” Harry spoke quietly. “He doesn’t really seem the type to _want_ to teach more than he absolutely has to.”

Hermione nodded with pursed lips, “Apparently, Professor Dumbledore ‘persuaded’ him to accept me. The Headmaster believes my apprenticeship will benefit the war effort.”

“Hang on, how–”

She held up her hand, “I asked him the same thing, Harry, but he wasn’t terribly forthcoming with information.”

“Typical,” Ron huffed, folding his arms across his chest. “I mean, congratulations, Hermione, but I can’t imagine having to spend more time with him than I absolutely have to. Reckon I’d be happy if I never have to see his ugly mug...” Ron trailed off at the livid expression on Hermione’s face. He cleared his throat noisily and muttered a ‘ _never mind_ ’ under his breath.

Harry leaned forward and lowered his voice, motioning for his friends to do the same, “Do you think Dumbledore will induct us into the Order now that we’ve graduated?”

At the mention of the Order, Hermione’s countenance darkened, and her lips thinned, “Sorry, I have to go.”

Realising his mistake, Harry reached out over the table and grabbed her wrist, “Hermione, you haven’t eaten anything yet. Please stay – we’ll talk about something else.”

She pulled her hand from his grasp, “I’m going to be late.”

“It’s barely been ten minutes since you’ve sat down,” he called after her and stood, making to follow her. “Look, I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. Come back! Hermione, please wait!”

Ignoring his pleading, she ran from the Great Hall and into an adjoining corridor. She had almost made it to the staircases before she slammed into something solid.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean…” she faltered, keenly aware of being face-to-face with an irate Draco Malfoy.

Once he’d recovered from the shock, his face relaxed and he smirked at her, “My, my, my, if it isn’t the little Mudblood.”

Hermione bristled, “Get out of my way, Malfoy.”

He tilted his head, “Or what? Am I to receive a repeat performance of our third year? Are you going to have Boy-Wonder try to murder me again?”

She snarled, “Piss off, you arrogant prat.”

“You wound me, Granger.”

“For once in your pitiful life,” she seethed through clenched teeth, “leave me the hell alone!”

Suddenly, his eyes flashed, and his features hardened into a dangerous sneer. “I’d be very careful if I were you, Granger; insolence like that will get someone killed. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was you next.” He flashed a malicious smile and spoke with a patronising lilt, “You know, I doubt you’d last five minutes in the hands of a Death Eater. Perhaps we ought to practice.”

He took a step forward and, in an instant, her wand was at his neck, digging painfully into his jugular. “Go on, then, Malfoy. Show me what Daddy Death Eater has taught you.”

“You play a dangerous game, Mudblood,” he spat, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple belying his confidence.

“One last chance, little boy. Get out of my way or I’ll be taking a piece of you with me.” When he hesitated, she shifted her wand so that it hovered over his pulse point and pressed down, _hard_. “I’m not certain,” she said quietly, “that you’re in any position to take that risk, Malfoy.”

The blonde cautiously inched away from her until he felt himself a safe distance away. “You’ll no doubt pay for that, Granger,” he snarled, rubbing his neck. When he was certain that she would not follow him, Draco spun away from her and hurried down the corridor, out of sight.

* * *

Hermione paced nervously in front of Professor Snape’s office, having arrived at least twenty minutes too early. She imagined he wouldn’t be thrilled if she weren’t _exactly_ on time, so had refrained from knocking. The time passed agonisingly slowly; it seemed that, no matter how often she cast the _Tempus_ charm, time just didn’t budge.

Two minutes later found Hermione gnawing furiously on her fingernail. _Be calm_ , she chanted to herself, _be calm_. The calmer she attempted to be, however, the less of her fingernail she remained in possession of and, finally, she gave up trying to relax altogether.

Barely one minute later and Hermione was an absolute mess. The adrenaline rush was making her dizzy and her hair was coming undone from her French braid. Truth be told, she no doubt looked as much a fright as she felt.

“Oh, for the love of Merlin, Granger. Stop pacing like a nervous ninny and come inside!”

Hermione jumped at the sound of Snape’s voice. “Oh, P-Professor!” she stammered.

He rolled his eyes at her theatrics, “You have quite the heart of a lion, Miss Granger. Come through and be seated.”

She glowered at him as she found her seat, face aflame, refusing to acknowledge his comment. Snape pulled a stack of parchment from a drawer and laid it out in front of her.

“All right,” he began, “this is fairly simple to understand: you, the Apprentice, have agreed to serve me, the Master, for a total of three years to complete your Potions Mastery. On the whole, you will be following the syllabus as set by the Ministry. However, as their selected coursework can be quite dry and meets only the minimum requirements, I will be adding to it as I deem necessary.

“The Ministry also requires that you teach your own class for at least one year of this apprenticeship. You will serve as a teacher’s assistant in my classes to start and, when I believe you ready, I will advance you to the first- and second-years.” He licked the tip of of his index finger and flipped the page over. “The grading for my first- through fourth-year classes will be your responsibility and I may delegate tasks from my own classes as I see fit. Following, Miss Granger?”

“Of course, sir!” she could practically hear his eyes roll at her ill-contained enthusiasm.

“Quite. You will be given a monthly stipend to cover your personal expenses. As your Master, I will be responsible for your room and board and will provide any equipment or clothing you will need specifically pertaining to this apprenticeship. Everything else will be your responsibility.” A pause, “Finally, this section of the contract thoroughly details my agreement not to mistreat or exploit you while you are under my care, which is putting it rather mildly; it goes on for several pages, so do read that before you sign.”

When Hermione finished, she broke into a wide smile, her eyes bright. She grabbed the proffered inkwell and quill and signed hastily. Unable to restrain himself, Professor Snape rolled his eyes once more and signed his name just below her own. Once completed, the parchment bound itself with a green ribbon and winked out of sight with a pop.

Snape cleared his desk as he spoke, “We will begin your lessons three weeks after your graduation. The fewer students we will encounter, the easier your lessons will be to conduct. I suggest that you get all of your affairs in order before you return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I feel as though I may regret asking, but do you have any questions, Miss Granger?”

“Not regarding my apprenticeship, sir; this was most instructive.” She chewed on her lip, clearly debating whether to continue. At last, she said, “It’s about Draco Malfoy, sir.”

He nodded once and rose from his desk. “In that case, get out.”

“Sir?”

“I feel as though I was quite direct, Miss Granger: you are more than welcome, encouraged even, to remove yourself from my office,” he made a shooing motion with one hand.

Hermione’s jaw plopped open, “But why?”

“There are certain things in this war that even you, an interfering know-it-all, cannot know,” he walked to his door and pulled it open, beckoning her to leave.

“But, sir, he threatened me!”

“Understandable.”

Spluttering, “How dare you–”

Snape slammed the door so that it rattled on its hinges and advanced on her. When she was firmly trapped between his body and his desk, he said in a low hiss, “I will say this only once: the Malfoys are _not_ to be trifled with. Social standing and wealth afforded Draco free-reign in Hogwarts _in spite_ of his darker ties.

“The world is not as it seems, Miss Granger; safety is only an illusion. If Draco has threatened you in any way, you best ensure that you never encounter him again. Quiet!” he looked as though he wanted to shake her. “Do you understand? Cross the Malfoys and you will not live to tell that tale.”

 


	3. Painful Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Themes of suicide and torture in this chapter
> 
> Hermione relives painful memories during her sessions of Legilimency with Professor Snape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Sorry for taking so long to update; I got pregnant in the middle and had very severe morning sickness for a while. It made writing very unappealing for a while. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this chapter!

_April 1995:_

“About a year into my apprenticeship, Master Peyton hosted a gathering of the masters in the Isle of Skye. You and I stayed in a small wizarding village at the base of Blà Bheinn, right there.” Hermione pointed to the smattering of white houses tucked against the foot of the mountain. “The conference itself was being held in Glenbrittle. Master Peyton pulled a few strings with the Ministry and had them erect a temporary conference centre near the Fairy Pools.”

“Yes, Ivor always did have a penchant for spending Ministry funds,” Professor Snape replied with a snort. “How did he account for it?”

“He insisted that the festival of _Alban Hefin_ was integral to gathering potions ingredients that year.” Hermione’s lips twitched at the thought. “No one at the Ministry thought to dispute his claims.”

“Remarkable,” the man sneered, “our Ministry is run by a bunch of superstitious dunderheads.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, he said, “The so-called ‘power’ of the summer solstice is about as legitimate as snake oil.”

Hermione laughed, “And _that_ attitude is exactly why the local druids will never invite us back.”

“Good riddance.”

Hermione quirked her eyebrow, “Perhaps the reception left much to be desired, but the experience was well worth it.” With a wistful glance at the scenery, she added, “I would very much like to come back when this is all over.”

For a long moment, Professor Snape stood silently by, his hands clasped behind his back; not for the first time, Hermione wished she could reach into his mind and read his thoughts. Giving her a sidelong glance, he finally asked, “Why are we here, Miss Granger?”

“This,” she motioned about her, “is a memory.”

“I gathered as much,” he said condescendingly, “given that I performed the spell.”

She glared at him in frustration, “This is the memory in which I felt safest, happiest.” At his questioning look, she elaborated, “I had a devil of a time trying to clear my mind in our _Occlumency_ lessons; try as I might, I could not maintain a quiet, empty space in my head. I reasoned that using an existing place, a memory, would focus my thoughts enough to make a passable imitation of a cleared mind.”

“ _This_ ,” disbelief coloured his voice, “is your _Occlumency_ shield? How could you _possibly_ maintain it under pressure?” When she made no effort to respond, Professor Snape cleared his throat, “If you would drop the shield, Miss Granger, perhaps we can make some headway before the new year.”

“Of course,” she mumbled, and the Scottish countryside flickered until it vanished, leaving them standing in a vast space filled with nothing.

He took a moment to look about. “You clearly overstate the problem, Miss Granger; any emptier and you would rival Mr. Longbottom.”

“How kind of you,” she said dryly.

With little warning, the nothingness about them faded into a mass of colour and sound. Snape seemed almost at a loss for words at the barrage of memories coursing through Hermione’s consciousness. Stunned, he said, “How very unexpected. I had anticipated significantly more order from one such as you.”

Unsure as to whether she ought to take offense, Hermione replied curtly, “Not all of us mere mortals can attain your standards of perfection, Master Snape.”

Snape made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and grumbled, “How is _anyone_ to make sense of this? Miss Granger, you hardly need an _Occlumency_ shield when an intruder stands to get lost in this chaos.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Snape threw out his hand and grabbed hold of the first memory he could reach. In an instant, the jarring mess ground to a halt and winked out of sight. With great struggle, the chosen memory prised itself from Snape’s fist and expanded, bleeding into the empty space. A short while later, the two companions found themselves in a tiny house that overlooked the ocean.

The colour drained from Hermione’s face and she whispered, “No, not here.”

Distracted by voices emanating from the other room, Professor Snape abruptly left her side and disappeared into the hallway. Feeling as though she had little choice but to follow, Hermione trailed behind him reluctantly, all but dragging her feet as she went. When she finally joined the older man, Hermione was greeted by an eerie hush that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

At the centre of the room, a silvery lynx had formed, throwing the faces in the room into stark relief. It trotted about as though to demand everyone’s attention and then, in the deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, announced, “ _The Ministry has fallen. The Minister of Magic is dead. They are coming_.”

As the Patronus dissipated, a heavy silence descended that seemed to drag for eternity. For several long seconds, the room’s occupants held their collective breath, waiting for the punchline to a terrible joke. Unable to bear the tension, Mundungus Fletcher was the first to flinch and he Disapparated with an echoing crack.

Across the room, a younger Hermione stared at the newly vacated seat, mouth agape. “Remus, how in Merlin’s name did he disappear? The anti-apparition wards should have prevented him leaving!”

With a voice deadened by shock, Lupin murmured, “That’s not possible.”

“Could Mundungus have disabled the wards without us noticing?”

He shook his head. “That level of magic is far above his grade. I very much doubt he is our culprit, Hermione.” Pulling his wand from his sleeve, he cast a series of detection spells over the room, his movements becoming increasingly frantic.

“Remus, what is it?”

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, a look of horror on his face. “The only protective ward on this property is _Cave inimicum_ and it is perfunctory at best.”

“No,” she denied firmly, “that doesn’t make sense. The Headmaster said he tested everything himself.”

He hesitated, “I can’t find a trace of any other protective magics.”

“How do you mean?”

“This property is without a Fidelius charm, anti-apparition wards, muggle repelling charms, shield charms…” He dropped his hands to his sides, looking helpless. “From what I can tell, nothing but the _Cave inimicum_ ward was cast to begin with.”

“Have we just been sitting ducks for weeks?” she hissed. “Why have we never thought to double check everything?”

As though on cue, the protective ward around the property flared to life and a piercing wail rented the air. Hermione threw her hands over her ears and yelled at Lupin to leave. When he tried to argue, she said, “I don’t care what Dumbledore said about staying here, Remus; meet me at Grimmauld Place!” After a moment’s hesitation, he gave her a brief nod and turned on his heel and disappeared.

At the crack of his departure, the wailing alarm quieted. Without thinking, Hermione doused the lights with a flick of her wand and walked to the window ahead of her. Every muscle in her body tensed as she stared into the darkness, straining her eyes for any sign of the intruders. Seeing nothing, she tightened the grip on her wand and turned on her heel, making to Apparate.

“What the–”

It was with an overwhelming sense of dread that she realised she hadn’t moved an inch. Desperately, she turned about again and let out a sharp cry of dismay when she remained rooted in place. With slow, deliberate movements, Hermione retreated until she felt a wall against her back and held her wand pointed towards the front door, waiting. Almost as an afterthought, she Disillusioned herself with a shaky hand and breathed a mute sigh of relief when she faded from view.

With each passing minute, Hermione’s tension eased infinitesimally until she found herself cautiously optimistic that it had been nothing more than a false alarm. When fifteen minutes finally dragged by, she relaxed against the wall in a boneless heap and whispered a prayer of thanks to every deity she could think of. Realising that the Order no doubt feared the worst, Hermione conjured her Patronus and sent it into the darkness with a message of reassurance.

No sooner had the silvery otter dissolved than a volley of curses slammed into the exterior of the house, shaking its foundations. The subsequent blasts tore a gaping hole into the wall beside her and sent her crashing to the floor, knocking her wand well out of reach. Wincing at the pain radiating through her skull, Hermione gingerly cradled her head in her hands and tried to sit up. Before she could recover, however, a well-aimed body-bind curse hit her square in the chest and snapped her limbs together, dropping her unceremoniously onto the floor.

“Well, well, well, would you look who we have here, boys?” A face leaned into her field of vision and leered at her in a way that made her skin crawl. “You know, we’ve been looking everywhere for you, sweetheart.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he muttered ‘ _Homenum revelio_ ’ under his breath and waited. When the spell reported no other signs of life in the house, a vicious smile grew across his face until he seemed to bare all his teeth. “Did your friends leave without you, then? Such a pity.”

An enormous, muscular man stepped out from behind him. “What say you we have a little fun with her, eh, Dolohov? I’m sure the Dark Lord wouldn’t mind.”

Ice ran through Hermione’s veins and the reflex to cry out in fear lay trapped in her throat. Her frantic glances between the two men sent a wave of laughter through the group of Death Eaters.

“I don’t think she agrees, Rowle,” a voice she could not identify spoke from behind her.

“Then it’s rather a good thing,” Rowle lifted his wand towards her, “that we didn’t ask her opinion.”

Had her throat not been paralysed by Dolohov’s spell, Hermione would have screamed in agony; a blinding pain seared across her chest, slowly wrenching her ribcage in two. Warmth bled down her front and coated her skin, saturating her robes.

“There now, Rowle,” another man held out his arm, “mustn’t ruin it before the rest of us get a turn.”

Rowle sneered at him and sent a subpar healing spell in the girl’s direction. Hermione blinked slowly, trying to still the nauseating spin of the walls. When she fared no better, she closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, just barely able to halt the vomit forcing its way up her throat.

“Hang on a minute, Yaxley,” she heard Dolohov speak, “if you’re going to have a turn, try not to kill it.”

A scoff sounded, “Hardly my first time, you tosser.”

The voice she recognised as Greyback’s snarled, “Hurry the fuck up or I’ll take over.”

“What a fine idea!” Yaxley replied with mock enthusiasm. “Imagine the Dark Lord’s delight when we bring him a mutilated corpse to interrogate!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you lot,” Dolohov muttered, elbowing Yaxley aside, “I’ll do it.”

Without warning, Hermione’s skin was set ablaze. Pain, unlike anything she had ever experienced, rippled through her body, lighting every nerve ending on fire. The raging inferno burned as though she was being held against a blowtorch and she feared her flesh would melt from her bones under the heat. On it went, until she no longer held any grasp of time or reality.

Mercifully, when the _Cruciatus_ lifted, Hermione’s consciousness faded, and she was enveloped by the keen sense of relief that it was _finally_ over. Gratefully, she surrendered herself to the encroaching darkness.

* * *

At the abrupt conclusion of the memory, the original duo found themselves at the base of the mountain that Hermione had pointed out earlier.

“I woke up in a cell after that,” she half-whispered, rubbing her arms vigorously as though to warm herself. “I’m not sure you could even call it that, really; it wasn’t much more than a hole in the wall.”

After a beat, Snape replied flatly, “The Headmaster entrusted you to a werewolf and a conman.”

With a shrug, Hermione turned from him. “No one ever said it outright, but I knew that there were other, more important members of the Order to protect.”

Scathingly, “Ah, yes, who could forget Potter?”

Scowling, Hermione muttered, “Harry and Ron were sent away shortly after your disappearance, Severus. They didn’t want to leave me behind, but I insisted; I refused to leave without you.”

Unable to keep the tone of derision from his voice, he declared, “What a decidedly stupid thing to do.”

“I know you would have done the same for me, Severus.”

With surprising force, he reached out and seized Hermione by the shoulders, spinning her to face him, “Selfish girl! Have you no firm grasp on reality, Miss Granger, or do you merely lack any semblance of intelligence?”

“You’re hurting me, Severus,” she tried to pull herself out of his grip with little success, “let go!”

As his fingers dug savagely into her skin, he snarled, “Am I to understand that you singlehandedly negated the Order’s work over misplaced Gryffindor sentimentality? Did you _really_ sacrifice the future of the wizarding world because I would have ‘done the same for you?’”

“Severus, please–”

“For once, I find myself agreeing with you, Miss Granger,” he lowered his face so that it was within inches of her own, “ _this was entirely your fault_.”

With a violent jerk, Professor Snape pulled free of Hermione’s mind.

“Ah, welcome back!” Dumbledore smiled brightly at their re-emergence. “I trust you were successful, Severus?”

Without acknowledging the Headmaster’s greeting, Snape pushed himself away from Hermione’s bedside and stalked from the room, slamming the hospital doors behind him. A disapproving frown settled on Dumbledore’s brow and, with little more than a parting nod, he too swept from the room.

“Really, now!” Madame Pomfrey’s head popped out of her office with a look of indignation. Shaking her head, she disappeared into the adjacent storage room and returned laden with potions. Silently, she handed the beakers to Hermione and watched hawk-eyed as the younger girl choked them down. Satisfied, she went about tucking the bedding until Hermione was sure she’d not escape the bed without the use of a wand.

Left alone, it was with no little annoyance that Hermione realised she had once again been dosed with Dreamless Sleep. She cursed inwardly and, with begrudging resignation, allowed her eyelids to droop, giving herself up to another stretch of unwanted slumber.

When she awoke, the hospital wing was shrouded in darkness. Suddenly tired of being confined to a cot, Hermione pulled herself from the vice grip of the bedding and tiptoed towards the doorway. Silently, she summoned her wand from her bedside table, Disillusioned herself, and whispered, “ _Alohomora_.” The lock slid open with a quiet snick and she pulled on the brass handle, cringing at the loud creak echoing through the room.

“Going somewhere, Miss Granger?”

Hermione jumped in fright and dropped her wand, cursing as it rolled into the hallway. Irate, she turned to the potions professor and snarled, “Have you really nothing better to do than to frighten everyone?”

In a bored voice, he remarked, “I must say, it is so very disconcerting to speak to thin air.”

She threw her arm out to retrieve her wand and cancelled her enchantments with a forceful wave. “No, it is not, you insufferable, unendurable man! If your whole purpose in being here is to be tiresome, Severus, congratulations, you’ve been quite successful!”

Lazily, he twirled his wand in his hand. “The Headmaster released you into my custody, Miss Granger, and requested that I move you to my quarters this evening.” He glanced in her direction. “So, if you are quite finished…”

“For Merlin’s sake, get on with it then!”

With an exaggerated bow of his head, the man rose from his seat and walked over to the fireplace, igniting it with a low ‘ _Incendio_.’ He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the grate, calling out, “Professor Snape’s office.” Throwing an impatient look over his shoulder, he motioned for her to hurry up and, with a step, vanished into the green flames.

Feeling petulant, Hermione folded her arms over her chest in defiance and waited for as long as she dared. When she believed him sufficiently irked, she strolled through the Floo and into Snape’s office, a self-satisfied smirk blossoming on her face at his expression.

“Got lost, did we?” he snapped.

Examining her cuticles, she sniffed, “Clearly not.”

“Alas,” he remarked, a muscle twitching in his face as he glared at her. Finally, he walked to the door behind his desk and beckoned her through. “Do try to keep up, Miss Granger.”

He led her a short way down a darkened, musty corridor before coming to a halt at the entrance of his chambers. When they stepped past the portrait, Professor Snape spoke bitterly, “I assume you know where everything is.”

Hermione nodded mutely and, despite the circumstances, felt her heart lighten significantly. The living room stood precisely as she remembered it; modestly furnished with a few outdated pieces that gave it a pleasant, lived-in feel. Ahead of her, a fraying leather sofa lounged before an unlit hearth, flanked by wingback chairs on either side. The mantle stood bare of any personal trinkets, boasting only a thin layer of dust the house-elves likely missed. Wooden bookshelves adorned the walls, each filled almost beyond capacity with ancient tomes and scholarly texts alike.

Her perusal was cut short by Snape’s baritone drawl, “Professor Dumbledore has added an additional set of rooms for your personal use. In the interest of safety, it has been charmed to be visible only to those in possession of the key; the Headmaster and I have a copy each.” He dipped a hand into his pocket and extracted a slender golden chain, handing it to her. Turning away, he crossed the room and said, “The key itself has been enchanted against damage and thievery; wear it at all times and do be sure not to lose it.”

Hermione bristled at his tone. “I am perfectly capable of caring for a necklace, Severus.”

“Our most recent session of _Legilimency_ proves otherwise, Miss Granger,” he remarked quietly and placed his hand on the wall before him. At his touch, a door shimmered into view beneath his palm. He turned the handle and pushed it open, stepping aside to let Hermione enter.

“As you can see,” he waved his hand, “your living quarters. Your bathroom is through the door on your left. Should you require anything further, Professor Dumbledore has asked that you owl your requests to him directly.”

“Oh, Severus,” she sighed, placing a hand on her chest, “it’s beautiful.”

“I am sure the Headmaster would be thrilled to hear of your approval.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “of course.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he spoke, “You are free to make use of the texts in my library, with the exception of everything–”

“On the top shelf,” Hermione interrupted, “I know.”

Professor Snape carried on as though she hadn’t spoken, “I recognise that your curiosity knows no bounds, but do attempt to rein in any urges to do otherwise; I have no wish to scrape your innards from my ceiling.”

“Does his majesty require anything else?” she asked tersely.

“What an ungrateful little thing you are, Miss Granger,” he remarked and took a step towards her, clasping his hands behind his back. “But since you offered, I would not be averse to you adopting the adage of ‘being seen but not heard.’”

The tips of Hermione’s ears turned pink as she glowered at him. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

“More’s the pity,” he said with a smirk and walked from the room.

Hermione yanked her wand from her sleeve and spelled her door shut with such ferocity that it rattled on its hinges. She made a noise of exasperation and took a moment to survey her new room, feeling overcome by the Headmaster’s generosity.

Dwarfing the surrounding furniture, an enormous four-poster bed lay before her, made up in crisp linen bedclothes and lined with more pillows than she could possibly have use for. From its canopy hung sheer, embroidered drapes that seemed to glimmer and sway in the candlelight.

To her left, an antique chest of drawers and matching dressing table rested against the wall, each decked with fresh flowers and an assortment of Gryffindor-themed ornaments. Bookshelves lined the adjacent wall, framing a beautifully ornate desk and chair. A lit fireplace glowed behind her, with various photographs of her friends and family stacked on its mantle.

Hermione took a running leap towards the bed and fell into the cushions with a happy sigh. Toeing her shoes from her feet, she burrowed beneath the covers, cocooning herself in the thick duvet. She blew a curl from her face and stared at the hangings above her, feeling the tension ooze from her pores. Despite how much she felt she’d slept in the last few days, Hermione’s eyelids grew heavy after a few minutes and fluttered shut as she drifted into a peaceful slumber.

* * *

“Prepare yourself, Miss Granger,” Snape muttered, wand pressed against the girl’s temple. At her minute nod, he called out, “ _Legilimens!_ ”

As they dropped into her mind, they were immediately overwhelmed by an onslaught of memories and emotions darting by. With a grimace, Hermione noted that the chaos seemed only have intensified since their last session; unsurprising, really, given the complete isolation she had been sentenced to since moving into Snape’s quarters.

In the weeks following Hermione’s stay in the hospital wing, one thing had become abundantly clear: Snape was avoiding her. In the few moments that he hadn’t been teaching, proctoring detentions, or patrolling the halls, Professor Snape had taken to sequestering himself in his office until forced to retire for the evening.

Not one to be outdone, Hermione had become a sentry in his sitting room, convinced that mulish persistence would eventually flush him out and force him to talk to her. When he circumvented her efforts for the fifteenth night in a row, she had finally lost her temper and sent a powerful _Reductor_ curse at his bedroom door. That the wood barely tarnished under the force of her spell had left her feeling rather insulted.

_“I think it’s high time I alert the Inner Circle, Severus Snape!” she screamed. “Who knew such a powerful, scary Death Eater would take to hiding in his room like a fucking_ coward _!”_

_As expected, his door swung open with a deafening crash and ricocheted off the adjacent wall._

_“_ What _,” a malicious voice followed, “did you just say?”_

_A rather vindictive smile grew on her face. “Going deaf in your old age, I see.”_

_Advancing on her, wand aimed directly at her chest, he spat, “You play a dangerous game, Miss Granger. I suggest you retire to your bed before you further provoke my ire.”_

_She barked a harsh, humourless laugh, “What do you suppose you’ll do that your_ colleagues  _haven’t already done?” When he ground to a halt, she tilted her head to the side and said, “Do enlighten me, Master Snape. Will it be a round of the_ Cruciatus  _for me? Shall I lose a few fingers to an ill-deserved_ Sectumsempra _?”_

_An emotion she couldn’t discern flashed across his features and he nodded sharply, “Goodnight, Miss Granger.”_

_As he turned to leave, Hermione called out, “No, Severus, I’m sorry! Please wait!”_

_Tiredly, he said, “Perhaps we should reconvene in the morning.”_

_“Am I not to see you again?”_

_His door closed behind him without another word._

When at last he pulled himself from his self-imposed seclusion, Snape had stiffly requested another session of _Legilimency_ and, at her mute agreement, stalked from the room, leaving a despondent Hermione waiting another four days.

She sighed deeply, bringing herself back to the present. “Go ahead, Severus.”

With a nod, he thrust his hand forward and groped around the stream of memories before finally managing to grab hold of one. As before, the mass vanished from sight, and the chosen memory slipped from his grasp, seeping into the nothingness.

The pair soon arrived in a starkly white room devoid of furniture, two lifeless bodies sprawled on the floor. Hermione bent over at the waist and gagged violently; an acrid, metallic smell hung in the air, forcing its way into her nostrils, and coating her lungs.

_Blood_.

The duo watched silently as the prone woman stirred with a painful moan. With a grunt, she peeled her body from the floor and dragged herself to the unmoving pile of black robes ahead of her. At the man’s side, she cupped his cheeks in her hands and hunched over him, whispering, “Severus?”

_Nothing._

Pressing her forehead to his, she tried again, desperation lacing her tone. When little more than an airy gurgle escaped from the back of his throat, the younger Hermione felt the world drop away. Gently, she pulled his body into her lap and rocked, brushing her lips over his bloodied hair. As his breathing turned shallow and ragged, she tightened her grip on him, murmuring _‘please don’t leave me_ ’ under her breath.

Uncaring of the state of him, she buried her face in his hair and wept, letting loose an agonised cry that grew in intensity until she no doubt echoed through the halls of Malfoy Manor. The soft rattle of his breath crawled to a halt and Hermione held shaking fingers to his pulse point. “Not yet, not yet, _not yet_ ,” she whimpered desperately.

Twisting about, she screamed for the Death Eater standing guard. The masked figure hesitated just outside the door and she pounded her fist against the stone floor in frustration, croaking, “For fuck’s sake, Draco! He’s dying! _Help him_!”

With an irritable huff, the boy trudged over and seized Severus’ body, kicking at Hermione’s frantic hands. He turned to her, as though to say something, but shook his head and Apparated the dying man from the interrogation room with an unnecessarily loud crack.

Gingerly, she lowered herself to the floor and curled into a tight ball, waiting for the Death Eaters to return her to her cell. “All is well,” she rasped as the heaviness in her chest grew, pulling her down like a millstone about her neck. “Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before.” Tracing her finger through the congealing blood on the floor, she whispered, “How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again.”

As dark spots swirled in her vision, Hermione closed her eyes and wondered just how close to death she really was; comforted by the thought that she might not have to be without Severus for terribly long, she tried to relax her trembling limbs.

Not long thereafter, she flinched at the unexpected feel of a cool hand against her forehead. Bewildered, she opened her eyes and blinked rapidly, unsure of what to make of the creature standing before her.

“What–”

“Missy Hermione,” overly large eyes stared at her in a disconcerting manner, “the Headmaster has asked Tully to fetch the young Miss.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed deeply, “The Headmaster? But he’s d–”

Ears flopped haphazardly about as the house-elf shook her head. “We must hurry; the Headmaster calls.”

“What the–” 

Tiny hands grabbed her wrist and, with a nauseating jerk, squeezed her body through a criminally small tube, twisting her about until she felt as though she had expelled her intestines. When they landed in the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, Hermione pushed herself to her hands and knees and dry heaved until she could taste blood. Wracked with cramps, she collapsed onto the floor in an undignified heap and groaned as the office spun on its axis.

An older, familiar voice spoke from the frame above her, “Mistress Snape, it’s so very good to see you.”

She held up a shaking hand, “You’re going to have to give me a minute.”

“Tully,” the man addressed the house-elf, “there should be several vials of Blood-Replenishing potions in Severus’ old stores. Would you be so kind as to fetch one or two for Mistress Snape?” He paused, thinking. “A Strengthening Solution might also be in order, I think.”

The little elf bowed low to the ground and winked out of sight. Not two minutes later, she reappeared, cradling several vials of fluid in her arms; she pushed them towards Hermione, gesturing for her to drink.

“If you will, Madam,” the portrait urged her on, “we don’t have terribly much time before you need to leave.”

Hermione gagged forcefully as she swallowed the Blood-Replenishing potion. “L-Leave?”

“I cannot say how long Headmaster Rookwood will remain under the influences of the sleeping draught.” At her blank stare, he chuckled and elaborated, “The kitchen staff have been most forthcoming with their services of late.”

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand after emptying the remaining vials. “I didn’t know they were allowed to do that!”

Tully squeaked, wringing her hands on her uniform, “We does not want the bad men, Missy Hermione!”

“She is correct,” the older man tapped his chin thoughtfully. “It would seem that Hogwarts itself has rebelled against the notion of Death Eaters as educators.”

Hermione made a face. “Like its reaction to that Umbridge cow?”

“Precisely. Rookwood has, on occasion, managed to gain entry to this office, but the gargoyle tends to be rather tetchy these days,” he smiled warmly. “Likewise, the elves seem not to have been bound to the newcomers and can, as such, choose whomever they serve.”

Tully beamed at the portrait, “We is serving Headmaster Dumbledore, of course.”

“We portraits have had our own fun as well, I dare say,” Dilys Derwent remarked from her portrait with a smirk.

The gruff voice of Phineas Nigellus barked, “And he deserved it! Besmirching these hallowed halls with his filth.”

“Okay,” she nodded slowly, “what would you have me do, Headmaster?”

“Excellent!” Dumbledore’s portrait clapped his hands together and pointed to the box directly below him. “The password is Fizzy Wizzy.”

“Good grief,” Phineas glared at Dumbledore, “have you no shame, man?”

With an eyeroll, Hermione limped her way over and studied the miniature chest for a moment. Instantly curious, she muttered the password under her breath and heard the lock disengage with a faint click. As the lid swung open, she gasped, “A Time-Turner, sir?”

“Very good, Mistress Snape.”

With an irritable scowl, “Why on earth would you leave something like this in plain sight?”

“I was not concerned,” he shrugged. “There are very specific wards in place; anyone with ill intent would find themselves on the wrong end of a painful curse.”

Hermione breathed out slowly, “All right. I assume you have a plan?”

“I should think it fairly obvious.” He gazed at her over his half-moon spectacles. “I intend for you to use it.”

Grinding her teeth together, she muttered, “Yes, I gathered as much, sir. The practicality escapes me, however; what good is a mere day in the grand scheme of things?”

He twinkled at her from his frame, “Ah, but this is no ordinary Time-Turner, Mistress Snape. You see, a few years ago, I rather unexpectedly became the owner of one of the two ‘true’ Time-Turners.”

Hermione gaped at him. “But it’s illegal to possess either of those! The Department of Mys–”

“What Unspeakable Bancroft doesn’t know, will not kill him,” he interrupted. “I trust that you will keep that detail to yourself?”

Glowering, she nodded stiffly, “I suppose so, sir.” After a pause, “Where precisely am I meant to go?”

“I suggest that you return to the moment before our spy was abducted by his fellow Death Eaters.”

Her heart clenched painfully at the mention of Severus. With a tremor in her voice, she asked, “But, why me, sir?”

His expression changed to one of deep sorrow, “Because, Mistress Snape, you are the last of us.”

“Sir, I – you should know…” she stammered.

The portrait held up his hand. “I suspect we are out of time. As you can see, the Time-Turner has three dials; the largest to toggle the number of years, the smaller two will adjust the months and days. You will need to remove the pin from the switch before you attempt to use it.

“I have not used this device, personally, so I cannot guarantee accurate time jumps. Try to be as precise as possible when you adjust the dials and, most importantly, _be careful_. If–”

A loud noise outside the office startled the girl and she dropped the Time-Turner, “ _Shit!_ ”

“You must go immediately!” Dumbledore urged. “Quickly!”

In her panic, Hermione tugged on the pin and toggled the device with clumsy fingers; in a blur of colour and sound, the girl fell gracelessly into the past.

* * *

In the hours following their session, Snape had barely acknowledged Hermione’s presence. Though he remained in his chambers with her, he seemed as determined as ever to ignore her. Each attempt she’d made towards conversation had either been rebuffed or met with a tense silence. By late afternoon, she had given up and curled herself in a ball on his sofa, staring vacantly at the walls.

After dinner in the Great Hall came and went, Hermione was prised from the couch by a concerned house-elf and gently herded towards a table in the far corner of the sitting room. A plate clattered to a stop in front of her, shoved from the other end of the table.

“You need to eat.”

“Later,” Hermione said dully, rising from the table, “I’m not hungry.”

“Miss Granger, you will return to your seat,” Snape instructed, growing angry.

Her shoulders drooped, and she turned to face him, “Or what? You’ll force me to eat?”

“If I deem it necessary.”

She snorted, “You needn’t bother with this charade, Severus; we both know you don’t truly care either way.”

He gnashed his teeth. “As it has become my frankly _undesirable_ duty to care for you, I am required to ensure that you see to your needs.”

Hermione quirked an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, of course. That would explain why you ignored me for three weeks.”

“You are hardly in a position to judge social graces, Miss Granger,” he spat. “Or have you forgotten that you singlehandedly doomed the entire wizarding world?”

“Such a melodramatic sentiment, Severus.”

Snape’s lip curled with a sneer, “Stupid girl. You are aware, no doubt, of the laws regarding time-travel; after all, your obnoxiously know-it-all nature is legendary.” He ignored her indignant splutter. “So, consider, for a moment the _known_ far-reaching consequences of revealing the future to one person alone. _You_ , in your infinite brilliance, told _five people_ , thereby exponentially increasing the likelihood of disaster.” Breathing rapidly, he snarled, “We are, all of us, free agents, Miss Granger, and it is through individual choice that we determine our own destinies. You _cannot_ hope to control us and your truly naïve hope to do so has guaranteed our destruction.

“What will it take, Miss Granger, for you to realise the weight you carry?” He walked up to her and jabbed a finger at her chest. “That of your friends’ lives, their families, _mine_?”

“Some risks are worth taking,” she replied, blinking back tears.

“You must think very highly of yourself to believe that that was your decision to make.”

Shaking, she murmured, “But Professor Dumbledore–”

He sneered, “You hedged a bet on a portrait, Miss Granger, and you will lose.”

At that, Hermione spun on her heel and headed for her bathroom, warding the doors behind her. After erecting a powerful silencing charm, the girl pulled her jumper over her head and slid out of her pyjama bottoms, discarding her underclothes to the floor as she went. Unclothed, she stood before her full-length mirror and perused her frame with an unforgiving eye.

Despite her best efforts, Madam Pomfrey had been unable to heal the worst of her scars; the gifts from Dolohov and Rowle still bisected her from shoulder to torso in two thick, jagged lines. She had fared no better under the enchanted whip; the deep gouges had healed into a valley of rubbery, pink scar tissue that marred her back and thighs.

In her opinion, even the bruises were taking an unnaturally long time to heal, littering her body in overlapping hues of yellow and green. With clinical detachment, she turned her wrists over and studied the etch marks she’d made over the last few weeks; they were finally faint enough that she had to squint to see them.

Unimpressed, she turned from the mirror and walked over to the bathtub, reaching out to start the water. For a few seconds, she hesitated, tracing over the ridges of the taps with the tips of her fingers. On a whim, she opened the cold water as far as it would go and rested on the lip of the tub, watching the water spill over the marble. Once filled to the edges, she wound the tap shut and slid into the frigid water with a high-pitched gasp, grimacing as she submerged herself completely.

Beneath the surface, she relaxed into the cold and watched the flickering candlelight as it danced over the rippling water. When her lungs burned sharply in protest, she allowed her lids to droop and cleared her mind, comforted by the growing darkness.

As the vice-like grip on her chest grew tighter, unbidden memories of faces and colours bled into her consciousness, streaming by as though to pay their final respects. Bidding them all a fond farewell, Hermione became dimly aware of an encroaching sense of peace; not for the first time, she suspected that, perhaps, this really was for the best. At last, she steeled herself and inhaled deeply.

When the blinding agony and convulsing finally stuttered to a halt, warmth and light suffused her body; Death cradled her gently in his arms, reluctant to carry her through the veil. Instead, he laid a withered hand against her cheek, willing her to a peaceful slumber, and enfolded her in his embrace as she drifted.

With a strangled cry, Hermione jerked awake, clutching frantically at her chest. There was a rustle of bedding and a soft grunt beside her. A voice, thick with sleep, slurred, “Merlin’s sake, woman.”

“Severus?”

She could practically hear his eyeroll in the darkness, “Obviously.”

“But I…” she trailed off, her voice wavering. “I don’t understand. How are you–”

The man flopped onto his back and groaned deeply into his hands, “You bear an uncanny resemblance to purgatory at this time of morning, Mistress Snape.”

Her breath hitched painfully, and she swallowed thickly. “Is this real? Am I d-dead?”

Suddenly realising her distress, Severus reached out to her and pulled her against him. Tucking her head beneath his chin, he murmured, “No, Hermione. Not yet.”

“I’m going to have to go back, aren’t I?”

His hands tightened about her and he pressed his lips to her hairline, saying nothing. A violent tremor started in her limbs and something within Hermione seemed to break; she dissolved, weeping uncontrollably. Her body rattled against his with each gut-wrenching sob and she rasped her desperate apologies until she found she could no longer speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem I used is titled 'Death Is Nothing At All', by Henry Scott-Holland.


	4. Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is forced to confront her demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for having taken so long to post this chapter. The last few months of my pregnancy were especially difficult and, at two weeks postpartum, I am only now beginning to feel somewhat human again. I will do my best to keep a regular schedule with posting; however, with a newborn, nothing is guaranteed. Either way, I have no intention of abandoning this story. I have also edited the first three chapters again and will repost those. Nothing of substance has been changed, but the flow and grammar should be somewhat improved.

_June 1998_

“My god, there are a lot of you,” Hermione said with a wince, squinting at the man before her. “I think,” she slurred, tipping forward, “I had a titch too much to drink.”

“I can see that,” Ron agreed, grabbing her by the armpits before she could sink to the floor. He helped her shuffle to the bed and laid her gently on the covers, brushing a few strands of hair from her sticky forehead. “Where’s your purse, Hermione?”

She waved her hand vaguely, “Somewhere over there.”

“You have a sobering draught, then?”

She nodded, resting a hand over her eyes, waiting for Ron’s return. After a moment, he pulled her up and held a vial out to her. Hermione clenched her eyes shut, breathing furiously through her nostrils, hoping that she might avoid expelling the contents of her stomach. Reaching for the proffered potion, she rapidly downed its contents and fell back into the pillows.

“Ta,” she croaked gratefully.

The bed dipped as Ron settled on the edge and she rolled onto her side, watching him silently. He sat stiffly, his eyes averted, as he traced random patterns on the sheets. Disconcerted, Hermione reached out and grasped one of his hands between her own and gave him a gentle squeeze.

“You all right?”

After a beat, “Hermione, are we going to talk about this?”

“About what, Ron?”

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you like this,” he gestured at her sweaty form. He hesitated for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts, “I mean, it’s clear something is bothering you and I want to help the best I can. I just can’t do anything if you don’t let me in on it.”

When her expression fell, Ron climbed into the bed beside her and pulled the covers over them. Taking his wand from his back pocket, he cast the room into darkness and wrapped his arms about her. Hermione pressed her face against his shirt and sighed faintly, comforted by his familiar smell.

As he neared the edge of sleep, she whispered, “I am… afraid you might hate me.”

Thickly, he asked, “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because I killed them, Ron.”

More alert now, Ron pushed himself up onto his elbows, “We’ve been through this once before, Hermione.”

Tears leaked into her hairline as she watched the moonlight stretch over the ceiling. She rubbed her nose on the heel of her hand and spoke in a broken whisper, “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Hermione,” he started, a nervous edge creeping into his voice, “what are you talking about?”

“My parents,” she murmured, “I wiped their memories last year, thinking it would keep them safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

With a half-hearted shrug, “I thought you would try to stop me.”

“Give us a little credit, Hermione. At the very least we wouldn’t have made you do this alone. Any of us, the Order, would have tried to help.”

She breathed a laugh, “I’m not sure they would have. All that talk of protection and no one ever remembered them. It’s always been about Harry – which I understand, really – but I kept hoping someone would worry about me too.”

Ron pulled away at that and pushed himself to the side of the bed, dangling his legs over the edge. In a wounded tone, he replied, “Harry and I, _we_ worry about you a lot. You haven’t been the same since they died and neither of us knew how to help. Harry kept saying you’d come to us when you were ready, but…”

A memory from earlier that morning swam to the surface, of the Grangers gazing at her through unfamiliar photographs; their unmoving, unsmiling faces bespeaking an inner turmoil they could neither define nor comprehend. Their stiff figures stood inches apart that, for all the intimacy it conveyed, may as well have spanned entire leagues.

“I thought I had it all figured out,” she explained. “I thought I had considered all the variables and the risks, but, in the end, I’d cast something incorrectly. Maybe I was too distracted by the enormity of it all, or maybe I’d held out too much hope for an alternative. I don’t know. Either way, it – the spell – changed them, and not in the way I had expected it to.

“The worst part,” she dug her nails into her forearm as she continued, “is that I didn’t even know it had gone so horribly wrong. I hadn’t even checked.”

Within hours of Hermione departing her childhood residence, the Grangers had grown keenly aware that a vital piece of themselves had suddenly gone missing. Rather than disappearing into the Australian countryside under the assumed identities of Wendell and Monica Wilkins, her parents had instead embarked on a soul-searching trek across the United Kingdom.

After a fruitless year, the pair resigned themselves to a half-life, deeply unhappy with the inability to heal their psyches. They settled in the village of Tintern; a small, Welsh community on the west bank of the River Wye. Miserable though unaware of the dangers facing them, the Grangers immersed themselves in their new lives and foolishly made themselves known to all and sundry.

As the long-awaited summer of ninety-seven drew ever near, a violent altercation broke out between two boys in a Scottish boarding school. Tragically, the consequences were dealt in bodies; not two days later, five corpses were unceremoniously deposited outside the gates of said school, an accompanying skull seared into the sky.

The following morning, Hermione received a short, impersonal missive by owl post; _I regret to inform you_ , it had said. Through the blur of inconsolable tears, she took note of three others: Hestia Jones, Aberforth Dumbledore, and beloved Nymphadora Tonks. _Their funerals_ , the letter read, _shall take place at 12 Grimmauld Place in a fortnight._

At first, Hermione had considered consulting a Muggle psychiatrist; perhaps she would drown herself in a fistful of prescriptions and live out the remainder of her life in a numbed daze. Unfortunately, she could neither cope with another _Obliviate_ nor bear the weight of the lies she would inevitably suffocate beneath. Instead, she buried her grief within the hallowed walls of the Hogwarts Library, wherein she would silently ache for what seemed from another lifetime.

“It was by chance I found it,” she held her forearm in a punishing grip, hoping to stay the encroaching hysteria. “Their estate,” she clarified. “They were in the paper, you see. They had entered a festival of sorts and gotten themselves plastered all over the front page. So much for giving them a quiet life in obscurity.”

Hermione rolled onto her side and pulled her knees to her chest, “I went there after the graduation ceremony to tie up some loose ends, I suppose. Mrs. McKnight – that’s their neighbour – said they often mentioned feeling quite lost and unsure of themselves. She said they’d looked like ghosts, completely emptied of life.” She bit back a sob, “This was all my fault, Ron. I killed them.”

The realisation of her role in their deaths had been a heavy one; she wanted nothing more than to prostrate herself before her parents and confess to her sins, to beg their forgiveness. She would have welcomed their ire and disappointment gladly, if only to fill the excruciating void their absence had created.

By the week’s end, Hermione’s conscience could bear it no more, and she sealed their home in protective magics, encasing it like a shrine to the dead. With a lingering glance over her shoulder, she spun on her heel and landed in the Leaky Cauldron, set on smothering her sorrows with the cheapest spirits money could buy. By sheer unlucky coincidence, Ron had passed through the Leaky on his way home and insisted she accompany him back to the Burrow. Knowing he would accept no alternative, Hermione had sighed heavily and stumbled to her feet, dropping a few coins on the grimy pub table. As she lurched forward, Ron had grabbed her by the waist and wrapped his arms securely about her, Apparating them to his home. She clung to him longer than strictly necessary and was gratified that he’d made no move to release her either.

“You should tell Harry,” Ron’s voice broke through her stormy thoughts.

“Tomorrow,” she agreed reluctantly, reaching over and pulling him back into the bed. Burrowing herself into his embrace, she sighed, “I’m sorry; I should have told you earlier.”

Ron pressed his cheek against her forehead, “S’alright. Now, get some rest. Mum’s been a right nightmare trying to get the house ready in time for everyone and you won’t cope without some sleep.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t for a while yet, promise.”

“Thank you,” she smiled into his shirt, reassured, and allowed herself to drift off in the safety of his company.

The following morning, she awoke alone, little proof of the night prior, save for the rumpled sheets beside her. With a wide yawn, Hermione stretched until the joints in her back creaked in protest. Kicking at the duvet, she pushed herself upright and climbed out of bed, walking to the window ahead of her. She smiled down at the gathering of Weasleys in the garden and felt an almost unfamiliar lightness of spirit at their happy manner.

Retreating further into the room, she peeled the rumpled clothes from her body and changed into a fresh cotton blouse and pair of jeans. She grimaced at the pallid face in the mirror and ran the tips of her fingers over the shadows beneath her eyes. She tugged at the tangle that had once been her curls and clenched her teeth, determinedly forcing her fingers through the knots. Finally, she managed to pull the tortured hair into a French braid that hung limply between her shoulder blades. Giving herself a cursory once-over, she determined herself average at best and headed outside.

“There you are, Hermione!” Molly Weasley called cheerily from the table they had erected for breakfast. “Ron told us you’d come last night; we were so happy to hear you’d be joining us!”

“Sorry, I should have let you know–”

She tutted and waved off the apology, “Nonsense, dear. You know you’re always welcome in our home. Now, have a seat; we’ve just started breakfast. George, you need only one chair, so do make some room.”

“Oi! Not one _me_ ,” Ron groused, trying to push his brother from his lap. “There’s a seat right _there_ , gerroff!”

“Fine,” George affected a hurt tone, “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“There’s a first, Georgie,” Fred smirked from behind his teacup.

As Hermione lowered herself into a chair, a steaming mug of freshly made coffee materialised in front of her. With a murmured thanks, she smiled at the dark-headed boy beside her, “When did you get here, Harry?”

“A few days ago,” he replied, accepting a plate of toast from Mrs. Weasley. “They needed some help expanding the upper levels here and I didn’t think my aunt and uncle would be too sad to see me go.”

“They’d sooner send you a thank-you note for leaving,” Ron snorted, spooning eggs onto his plate.

“Their loss,” Hermione said, sipping at her mug. “Where’s Ginny? I didn’t see her overnight.”

Speaking through a mouthful of food, Ron nodded towards the house, “Yeah, I expect not; Dad put her up in one of the guestrooms when they’d heard you’d arrived. Anyway, she was in the shower last I checked.” Turning to his mother, he inquired, “Say, Mum, when do the rest get here?”

Dusting the crumbs of toast from her hands, Molly reached across the table for the porridge. “Bill and Fleur arrive tomorrow morning, and Charlie arrives with his lady friend this evening.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t know Charlie was seeing someone.”

Fred shot Hermione a suggestive look, “Not disappointed, are you?”

“No, I–” she spluttered.

Ron pulled a face, “Don’t be disgusting. Hermione doesn’t fancy Charlie.”

George reached over and tousled his younger brother’s hair, “That’s awfully certain of you, Ronniekins.”

“I just mean to say–” 

As though by divine intervention, a tiny owl swooped over the table and circled Ron’s head excitedly, cutting him off. With an impatient mutter, he snatched the bird out of the air and pulled the letter from its talons, pressing a piece of toast into the owl’s beak as payment.

“Off with you, Pig,” he mumbled when the bird didn’t immediately take the hint. He handed the letter over to the intended recipient and scowled as the excitable hoots beside him intensified. “Oh, for the love of Merlin,” he made to grab the little ball of feathers, “get out of the ruddy eggs, Pig.”

“Who’s it from, dear?” Arthur asked between forkfuls of sausage.

“Percy,” Molly said faintly, skimming through the contents of the note. “He says he’s quite busy with some new legislation but will try to pop round on Thursday.”

“Oh, jolly good!” he gave her a brief salute with his fork before returning to his plate. He was startled into dropping it, however, when an unexpected, ear-piercing squeal sounded from the kitchen doorway.

“There you are!” Ginny pulled Hermione into a suffocating embrace. “Thank Merlin.”

“Bloody hell, Ginny,” Ron scowled, reaching out to grab the orange juice from across the table. “I’d like to preserve my eardrums if that’s all right with you.”

“Whatever, Ronald. Scoot over Harry?”

“So, Hermione,” Arthur started, “what of your apprenticeship? Have you heard back yet?”

“I have,” she nodded. “I’ll be off to Hogwarts in two weeks’ time.”

“You don’t sound terribly excited.”

Hermione sighed, “I was at first… It’s just that I wanted to be accepted based on academic merit alone, not my potential as a soldier.”

“How do you mean?”

Frowning, she scraped a thumbnail over an imperfection on her crockery and muttered, “Professor Dumbledore interfered, and Professor Snape accepted my application only after he felt persuaded to do so. It kind of feels like a hollow victory this way and, honestly, the more I consider it, the worse it feels.”

Harry gave her a reassuring pat. “It’s not unreasonable to feel disappointed.”

She shrugged and drained her mug, swirling the dregs as she replied, “I can’t help but feel as though this will become yet another thing Professor Snape will resent me for.”

“Oh, tosh,” Molly tutted. “I’m sure he doesn’t resent you.”

Ron laughed incredulously, “Oh yeah, he’s certainly never striven to prove otherwise.”

George gave him a sharp slap to the back of the head, “Shut up, Ron.”

“Anyway, I know he will never be _fond_ of me, exactly, but I had hoped this apprenticeship would encourage a truce, of sorts.”

“Oh, it might yet,” Molly assured her, dabbing the edges of her mouth with a serviette. “I think it’s too early to set your expectations, dear; he might surprise you.”

“For the worst, maybe,” Ron said into his glass, nearly choking on the juice when he received another slap.

“Ronald Weasley, that is entirely unhelpful!” Molly admonished him in a shrill voice. “If you can’t contain yourself, you’re more than welcome to make yourself scarce.”

He ducked his head, reddening, “Sorry, Mum.”

“So, he expects you back in two weeks then, does he? Well, Arthur and I would be happy to take you to Diagon Alley when things settle down in a few days.”

“Oh, really, there’s no need,” Hermione protested, “I can easily–”

She flapped her wrist, “It’s no trouble, dear. Besides, we can take care of Ginny’s shopping while we’re out.”

“Thank you,” she smiled gratefully. Turning to Harry, she asked, “Have either of you decided what you’re going to do?”

“Auror training starts on the first,” he responded, reaching for another helping of eggs. “I don’t suppose we’ll have a lot of time to ourselves once we get started.”

Ron snorted, “No kidding; they’ve brought on a new bloke to oversee the training. Sokolov, or something. Tough as nails, apparently, and likes to work his protégées half to death.” He pushed a finger into his abdomen, “Suspect I’ll firm up after a few weeks with him.”

George leaned over and pinched Ron’s side, “Didn’t realise he worked miracles.”

“Oh, careful,” Fred chuckled from behind the morning’s _Daily Prophet_. “Mr. Muscle over there might overwhelm you, George.”

“You’re right,” he mused. “Suppose he maims me? How will I ever get another date?”

“Would serve you right,” Ron sneered, whacking George’s prodding fingers away.

“For Merlin’s sake, enough,” Molly glowered, accepting the paper from Fred. “If you lot can’t behave yourselves, I’ll be obliged to lock you away for the rest of the month.”

Ron held up his hands in surrender, “Sorry, Mum.”

Molly rose from the table and, with a wave of her wand, lifted the half-cleared plates from the table and sent them to the kitchen sink. Smoothing her hands over her apron, she announced, “Right, everyone out of my sight! I’ve much to do before the others arrive.”

A chorus of voices called out their complaints only to be silenced by a stern eye and clipped voice, “Unless you’re all volunteering to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning, in which case…”

Taking the hint, the group clambered from the table and scurried into the yard.

“Not _you_ , Arthur!” came the indignant call from behind them. “Get back here!”

Exhaling sharply, Ron ran a hand through his hair, “That was a close one.”

“A little cleaning wouldn’t kill you, Ron,” Ginny muttered, climbing into Harry’s lap and all but welding herself to his side.

“It might!” Ron picked at a loose thread on his shirt. “I’d rather not risk it, to be honest.”

“So,” Harry interrupted, talking over the bickering, “get here all right, ‘Mione?”

“Yes,” she answered, plucking weeds from the grass at her feet. “Ron and I met up at the Leaky at about eight, I think?”

“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” Ginny said, a sincere smile lighting her face.

“You’re sweet.”

“By the way,” Ginny blurted in a sudden change of topic, “I have news!”

“No, you don’t,” Ron retorted.

With a decidedly rude gesture in his direction, she pressed on, “I may or may not have overheard Dad saying that Dumbledore’s considering holding Order meetings here.”

“Rubbish. When did he say that?”

“Shut _up_ , Ronald,” she snapped at him. “Last night. Granted, I don’t know that I was the intended audience, but it’s hardly my fault they talk so loudly.” Ignoring the knowing look from Fred, she queried, “Why do you suppose they’d move from Grimmauld Place?”

George stuffed his hands into his pockets, “Not that I’d need much of an excuse, what with how dark and depressing it always is. No offense, mate.”

Harry shrugged, “None taken.”

“Maybe it’s just faster to induct you lot over here now that we’ve got you all in one place,” Fred reasoned. At the frustrated noise beside him, he grinned, “Rotten luck, Gin. Just give it another year and you’ll get your turn.”

“That’s bollocks,” she hissed.

“Is not,” Fred gave her a condescending pat on the head. “We’ve got to keep our youth safe.”

Harry wrapped a hand around her elbow and stayed her arm as she moved to pull her wand from her sleeve. When she’d begrudgingly settled back in his lap and took to glaring at her brother, he said, “That doesn’t really make sense, though. They could just as easily induct us there. Do you suppose it’s been compromised?”

“Unlikely, given that Grimmauld Place is under a Fidelius Charm. Someone in the Order would have had to give the location away,” Hermione answered, frowning. “I can’t really imagine that anyone would–”

“I bet it was Snape.”

She dropped her head into her hands and groaned loudly. “Oh, for god’s sake, Harry. Are we really going to go through this every time? There’s likely a perfectly reasonable explanation,” she spoke louder, drowning him out, “that _doesn’t_ involve _Professor_ Snape. Honestly, you’re obsessed!”

“Yeah,” George agreed, “something you want to tell us, Harry?”

“Haven’t got a little crush, do you, Harry?” Fred asked with a faux innocent expression.

Pulling a face akin to the one Ginny had sported earlier on, Harry spat, “Don’t be disgusting.”

Fred sighed dramatically, “It’s feeling a little tense out here, George. Back to the matter at hand, then?”

“Right-o, Fred,” George nodded, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction.

“Well,” Ron put in, “I suppose that would explain why Mum and Dad are expanding the house. If we were to have Order meetings here, we’d need to house a fair few of the members and it’s not like they’ve ever considered expansion necessary for having family over before. Do you suppose Dumbledore’s compensating them?”

George shrugged, “It’s a possibility. I don’t think they’ve got enough stashed away for this kind of renovation. Not that I’m complaining, of course. At least now we’ll not have to share a room with Percy.”

“Come off it. When were _you_ ever sharing with him?” Ron scowled. “You’re already part of a two-person set, so it’s not like Mum would ever force his presence on you. He’d more likely end up with me, gods forbid.”

“Right nightmare,” Fred gave a mock shudder. “Although, odds are Percy will blow us off in the end, so you needn’t worry. Anyway, what’re you so worked up about? You have Harry to keep you safe, little brother.”

“Not true,” he muttered. “Harry’s shacking up with Ginny.”

“Ronald!” Hermione shrieked, mortified.

“You see, children,” George started, slapping a hand down on Ron’s shoulder, “when a man and woman love each other very much…”

“Gods, you two,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “Give it a bloody rest.”

“Oh, I say,” Fred held a hand over his chest. “I do believe we’ve offended the lady.”

George, with a matching expression of bewilderment added, “We’ve gone and twisted her knickers even further, Fred.”

“What a revolting notion, George.”

Before Harry could stop her, Ginny yanked her wand from her sleeve and peeled herself from his lap. “Come back here!” she screeched, running after them. “You two will have bats crawling out of your nostrils for weeks if I catch you, I swear to Merlin!”

Once alone, Harry joked, “Well, that was… interesting.”

Ron smirked, “Hardly unexpected though. At least there’s never a dull moment, eh?”

“Never.” Harry readjusted his glasses, looking completely transparent, and turned to Hermione, “So, what have you been up to lately? We missed you after the graduation ceremony…”

“This and that,” she deflected, her eyes glued to the ground. “Why?”

He hesitated, uncomfortable, “Well, Ron might have mentioned what you two discussed last night and I think we ought to talk about it.”

She sent a glare in Ron’s direction, “When you said _I_ should tell Harry, I didn’t realise that was a roundabout way of saying you’d save me the trouble, Ronald.”

“Don’t be mad at him, Hermione. Look, I understand why you did it, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not upset that you didn’t tell us. I’m not here to give you a hard time, but maybe we could have helped you more this last year if we'd known what was going on.” He reached into the grass and crushed a few clods of dirt between his fingers as he spoke, “You’re our best friend, you know, and you should feel comfortable enough to tell us these kinds of things.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Ron added. “It’s like I said, Hermione; you matter too.”

With a quivering lip, Hermione tucked her chin against her chest and murmured, “I was worried you’d hate me.”

“You have to know that’s completely barmy.” Harry pulled her towards him and wrapped an arm over her shoulders, “You needn’t explain yourself – not really – but I want you to promise you’ll come to us in the future. We can’t always help, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want the opportunity to try.”

More relieved than she had anticipated, Hermione tucked herself into Harry’s side and reached out to tug on Ron’s hand, pulling him down beside her. Firmly ensconced between the two of them, she blew a curl out of her face and said, “Anyway, enough of that. Any more of this talk and I’ll be a sopping mess in a minute.”

“ _Will_ you be okay though?” Ron asked, concerned.

“I think so. I’ve settled the most important of my parents’ affairs; the last of the paperwork should be approved by the end of next week, at which point I’ll take some time to sort through their things.”

“Need help?” Harry offered.

“I’d appreciate that,” she said with a grateful smile. “I have half a mind to just sell it all; it feels as though I’m desecrating a shrine every time I touch something. I may just let it sit for another while longer.”

Ron cleared his throat, “I’m pretty certain Mum and Dad won’t mind clearing it for you if you’re not up to it. Or, if you want, just give Harry and me a list of what you’d like to keep, and we can deal with the rest while you’re at school.”

“Really?” Hermione bit her lip, “I know it would be a lot to ask, but–”

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” Harry interrupted, “we can take care of it when you’re ready.” After a moment of comfortable silence, he asked, “So, two weeks, huh?”

“Professor Snape prefers an empty school, I suppose.”

“Colour me shocked,” Harry snorted. “You’ll write us if the bat is being unreasonable, yeah?”

“You’ll work Hedwig to an early grave that way, mate,” Ron laughed.

Hermione swatted at his arm, “Oh, do shut up. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“You have _me_ convinced, what with that sure tone of confidence and–”

“Gracious, Ronald, you certainly are on a streak today, aren’t you?” Hermione tossed a pebble at him.

The corners of his lips twitched, “I aim to please.”

“Try harder, then,” she threw back. With a sudden frown, she asked, “Who’s that?”

“What?”

Pointing to the lone figure approaching the house, “That.”

Harry held a hand to his forehead to block out the glare and muttered, “Speak of the devil. That looks like Snape.”

“Snape?” Ron, too, shielded his eyes, “Bloody hell, what do you suppose he’s here for?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. Come on,” she said, pulling herself to her feet and dusting the dirt from the seat of her jeans.

By the time the trio reached the backdoor leading into the kitchen, Snape had already been invited in and was seated at the head of the kitchen table. As they entered the room, he stopped midsentence and snapped his mouth shut, giving the group a distinct look of loathing.

“Ah, there you are,” Arthur pushed away from the counter he’d been leaning against and attempted to herd the trio into the next room. “Molly needs some help upstairs if you’d be willing to lend a hand.”

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Harry stepped past the man and drew himself to his full height, glaring at his former Potions Professor.

Snape’s lip curled into an unattractive sneer, “Once again, Potter, you prove that age is no measure of maturity. Perhaps I ought to spell it out for you; this does not concern you.”

“Harry,” Hermione pulled at his sleeve, “just leave him be, please. Let’s go.”

“No, I–”

Ron yanked Harry’s elbow hard enough to throw him several steps backwards. “Let it go, mate.”

An ugly expression blossomed on Harry’s face at Snape’s blatantly gloating smirk. Another hard yank and Ron finally convinced Harry to step into the other room. With a soft push, Hermione got him moving up the staircase until they reached the room he had been sharing with Ginny.

“It’s not worth it, Harry,” Ron muttered as he closed the door behind him. “You know he just wants to egg you on.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair in frustration, “I know that. I just hate how smug he is about keeping us in the dark, especially considering that we’re due to be inducted into the Order shortly.”

“I hate to say this,” Hermione gave him a nervous glance, “but there’s no real guarantee that they will.”

“What do you mean?” Ron queried, walking over to one of the beds and toeing his shoes off. As he slumped into the covers, he continued, “I mean, we’re of age and Harry’s rather integral to all of this. It wouldn’t make sense to keep us out.”

Hermione dropped into one of the chairs by the door, “Well, consider that no one has actually confirmed that they would induct us; we’ve been operating purely on speculation. We only _assume_ they’re about to because we’re of age.”

“That’s what they’ve always done, though,” Ron propped himself up on his elbow, resting his jaw in his hand. “And we’ve all been so deep in it from the beginning that it wouldn’t make sense to keep us out now.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Hermione tugged at the end of her braid and twirled a few of the strands around her fingers, “The longer it takes to flush Harry out of the woodwork, the more brutal Voldemort becomes. Given that the risk of Harry being caught has gone up tenfold in the last year, it would make sense if Professor Dumbledore would want to avoid giving us any potentially damaging information.”

“But keeping us in the dark seems irresponsible,” Ron reasoned. “It would be like trying to win a war with one hand tied behind your back; Harry is invaluable to the cause.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” she insisted, drawing her legs underneath her. “It seems safer to keep Harry out of it all, don’t you think? The cause is most likely lost if something were to happen to him.”

“ _Don’t_ talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Harry ordered, slapping the arm of his seat in anger. “To be perfectly honest, Hermione, it sounds less like you’re concerned for my safety and it’s more like a convoluted way of saying you’d prefer not to be inducted yourself.”

“That’s rather unfair, Harry. I’m just trying to look at it from all the possible angles.”

Harry gnashed his teeth together, “Is that all it is, though? Because you’ve been completely against discussing anything remotely related all year, and now you sound like you would deliberately advocate to keep us on the outside if given the option.”

Hermione scoffed, climbing from her perch, “There is _nothing_ wrong with not wanting to seek out more death, you know.”

“It seems rather cowardly to me,” he spat at her. “Not least because of the number of people who’ve had to sacrifice themselves to get us to where we are!”

She reeled back as though she’d been slapped, “That was low, Harry Potter, even for you.”

A heaviness settling in her ribcage, she spun on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her. She took a quick detour into her room, grabbed her purse and clothing from the floor, and all but ran down the stairs, the muffled sound of her footsteps trailing behind her. When she reached the landing, feeling rather put out that neither of the boys had attempted to stay her departure, she pulled her wand from its holster under her shirtsleeve and made to Apparate. Before she could complete the turn, however, her wand flew from her hand and clattered against the staircase behind her.

“Not so quick, Granger,” Snape’s voice sounded from the doorway to her left.

“I’m afraid you caught me at an inopportune time, Professor,” she retorted, squatting down to grab the stick of vine wood from the floor. “Unfortunately, I was just on my way out.”

With a flick of his wrist, he again sent her wand sailing from her reach. “I am well aware, Miss Granger, of your intentions; however, I would advise against such a course of action.”

“Duly noted, Professor Snape.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Snape twitched his wand hand again, “Miss Granger, if you lunge for that wand once more, I will confiscate it until such a time as I can trust you with it again.”

With a growing panic, Hermione swivelled her head about, seeking out the location of her wand. As she tensed her muscles in preparation to make a jump for it, the wand flew effortlessly into Snape’s outstretched hand and vanished from view.

Projecting a decidedly smug air, he continued, “As I said, it is rather imperative that you should remain with the Weasleys for the time being. There is an important meeting that requires your presence.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped, defeated, “May I at least enquire as to the nature of said meeting?”

“I am sure you may. Whether or not I choose to cooperate remains to be seen.”

Before she could manage a response, Snape stalked off to the front door and vanished into nothingness with an obnoxiously loud crack. After a brief internal debate, Hermione marched to the kitchen grate, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, muttered a destination, and stepped through the flames.

Hermione suddenly found herself thrown into complete darkness, her eyes straining to make sense of the room about her. A growing sense of unease shrouded her as she felt her way forward, drawing each foot tentatively over the floorboards and cringing at each intolerably loud creak. Heart hammering in her chest, her hands found a door and traced down the wood until she reached its handle. The metal cool against her palms, she pressed against it until the door gave way and inched it ajar.

Pressing her head against the door to look through the small space, she noted that this room, too, was blanketed in a thick blackness that would give her no means to determine her surroundings. A sudden panic gripped her, and she took several large steps backwards, hoping to make her way back to the grate in the previous room.

“Don’t be stupid, Hermione,” she said aloud, trying to regain her confidence. “Nothing is coming to get you in the dark.”

As luck would have it, whatever feigned sureness she’d mustered petered out the instant she slammed into an unknown entity in her haste to escape the room. She let out an involuntary shriek as two steely arms wrapped about her chest and squeezed tightly, lifting her from her feet and crushing her against the chest of whatever held her. As though touched by a gust of wind, the door ahead of her swung the rest of the way open and slammed against the wall beside it.

Through the suffocating grip and her waning air supply, Hermione could make out a faint whisper against the shell of her ear. “We knew you’d come back,” it stated, the air around her face growing musty and stale.

Another whisper before her, “We’ve been expecting you, Hermione.”

“No,” she gasped, her voice a shallow wheeze, “please, just let me go.”

“It was you,” the first breathed against her cheek, standing the hair on her neck on end. “You did this.”

“Please,” she begged, feeling her consciousness drift, “I didn’t mean to–”

The grip about her chest intensified, cutting her off.

“Your fault, Hermione,” the other voice chanted, “your fault.”

As the smell of decay grew ever heavier, Hermione’s lungs seized, and all sensation and sound absented into nothing. Mercifully, she was hurled into wakefulness by a bloodcurdling scream and found herself bound by a blanket on her late parents’ bed. When she finally freed herself from her unintentional prison, Hermione burst into hysterical sobs, her chest heaving forcefully as she struggled to breathe through the tears.

Hoping to chase the darkness from the room, she felt about for her wand only to remember that Professor Snape had confiscated it earlier. She broke out into fresh tears at the realisation and clutched her sides, swaying back and forth to soothe herself. After what felt like an age, Hermione managed to calm her weeping and frantic heart and she slumped into the pillows, feeling completely numb. Rolling over, she reached out for the bedside lamp and lit the room, half expecting her parents’ decaying forms hovering over her. Assured that she was alone, Hermione climbed out of the bed and rubbed her arms vigorously, hoping to restore some feeling of normality again.

As she stared at nothing in particular, Hermione questioned her decision to return to this place after she had only _just_ escaped it. Perhaps what Harry had said had hit her particularly hard and she wanted to be alone to allow her guilt to fester. Or, perhaps, she had wanted to be contrary with the object of annoying Professor Snape after he _stole_ her wand. Either way, she determined her decision a stupid one and she needed _desperately_ to get out of this tomb as quickly as humanly possible.

Her mood took an immediate nosedive, however, when she realised that she currently stood in rural Wales without a wand nor any means to activate the Floo network. Evidently, while she had had the forethought to connect the living room grate the previous week, she had neglected to consider _how_ one might use it any moment after.

“Goddamn it!” she screamed, pulling her shoe from her foot and tossing it across the room, where it bounced off the top of the dresser and sent a number of delicate trinkets crashing to the floor. “No!” she moaned, running over to assess the damage. Her hands shook as she collected several pieces from the floor and pressed them together, foolishly hoping they would mend themselves by thought alone. Not trusting her wandless magic abilities, she gingerly laid all that she could salvage back on the dresser and promised herself that she would return to fix everything once she’d retrieved her wand from Professor Snape.

Feeling a fresh wave of tears prickle at her eyes, Hermione squared her shoulders and found her purse, digging through the contents until she located her wallet. Once she’d counted through what she’d brought with her, she went downstairs to use her parents’ computer and determined she had more than enough to get her a taxi to the nearest train station. Whether she had enough fare to get to London remained to be seen, but she was determined to stay optimistic. After that, she faced a potentially daunting walk to Diagon Alley and, with some luck, an available Floo for her to make use of.

Hermione nodded to herself and trudged back upstairs to gather what she had brought with her. Following a frustrating call to the local taxi service, she found herself pacing the hallway impatiently. Ten minutes later, the longed-for honk sounded from outside and she all but ran from the house.

* * *

The following morning, as Hermione stepped into the Weasleys’ kitchen, she froze in shock; the room was taken up in a deafening uproar. An incensed Harry had leapt to his feet and was now openly yelling at those seated opposite himself, his face turning an alarming hue. Ron, who had adopted a similar expression, flanked him and leant over the table, barely able to keep himself from screaming over Harry.

When neither man received the response they had hoped for, Ron brought his fist down onto the table, rattling the crockery. “What I want to know,” he seethed, pointing an accusatory finger, “is why you lot seem so unbothered by the fact that she is _missing_. You’re behaving as though this is little more concerning than afternoon tea.”

Professor Dumbledore, unfazed, raised his hand to command silence. Calmly, he said, “We must consider our options carefully before we proceed.”

“Fantastic plan, sir,” Harry sneered. “Will we request a temporary cease-fire by owl, or do you suppose we’ll address Voldemort directly and hope he’s feeling generous?”

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley raised her voice over the din, looking scandalised. “How dare you speak to–”

Ron interjected loudly, “No, he’s right! It’s like you’d much rather wait to find out that she’s been taken instead of going out there and finding her yourselves! For all we know, she could be dead already.”

“Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall scrutinised him over her spectacles, “she has been gone for less than a day. I am quite certain there is a reasonable explanation.”

“I agree. We can’t risk the lives of the Order without some assurance that she truly is in danger,” Kingsley added seriously. “And I also cannot condone either of you attempting to rescue her yourselves.”

“Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me,” Ron muttered, his face a mottled shade of puce.

Professor Snape’s lip curled, “Given that no one has, Mr. Weasley, perhaps you would be obliged to shut that infernal trap of yours and allow the adults to handle the situation.”

“But this is so unlike Hermione,” Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. “She wouldn’t just disappear without letting someone know where she’d gone.”

After a brief lull in the conversation, Professor Snape nodded towards the kitchen grate, “Mr. Potter, I recommend you turn around.”

“Why would I–”

Ron’s head swivelled wildly about, and he yelled, “Hermione, where the bloody hell have you been!”

Seventeen pairs of unamused eyes suddenly landed on Hermione, who had taken to wishing she would expire where she stood.

In an unusually calm demeanour, Professor Snape addressed her, “Miss Granger, did I not instruct you to stay here last we met, or was taking your wand insufficient motivation?”

“Had you not taken my wand, _Professor_ _Snape_ , it might not have taken me nine stupidly long hours to exit Wales!” she threw back at him.

He raised an eyebrow, “So like a child you are, Miss Granger. Are you really going to stand there and blame me for your poor choices?”

“What the devil were you doing in Wales of all places?” Ron puzzled, a look of bewilderment growing on his face.

“My parents’ home,” Hermione clarified, determined not to meet anyone’s eye. “I connected their fireplace to the Floo last week but had forgotten to purchase powder. Given that I was no longer in possession of my wand, I had to make the return trip via train.”

Molly frowned, “The train doesn’t make a stop anywhere near here.”

“It was all rather convoluted,” she confirmed, wringing her hands. “Anyway, Madam Rosmerta was kind enough to let me use her Floo.”

In an exasperated tone, Moody grunted, “You still haven’t explained why you traipsed off after Snape explicitly told you to stay put.”

She visibly deflated, “I needed time away.”

“That you couldn’t find in any one of the spare bedrooms?”

“Clearly not,” she snapped.

Moody rolled his good eye, “You really are in no position to get angry with us, Granger.”

Ron gave Hermione a half-hearted smile, “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, ‘Mione.”

“In a manner of speaking,” she muttered, her desire to disappear intensifying with the passing of each awkward minute.

“I am rather loath to return this to you,” Professor Snape placed her wand on the table in front of him, “given your little _adventure_. Although, I imagine that alone was punishment enough for your stupidity.”

Hermione darted towards the table and grabbed the much-loved wand, feeling an instant sense of homecoming as she held it to her chest. Through gritted teeth, she ungraciously replied, “Thank you, Professor.” It took almost everything within her not to tack ‘ _for returning what you stole_ ’ onto the end of her sentence.

Professor McGonagall, taking advantage of the brief silence, spoke up, “Perhaps now we can get to the matter at hand?” She gestured pointedly to the seats near the Golden Trio and waited from them to get themselves situated.

Watching the group with a thoughtful expression, the Headmaster agreed, “Certainly.” Folding his hands on the edge of the table, he said, “Shortly after my arrival at Grimmauld Place two weeks ago, I noticed something amiss. I discovered there had potentially been a breach in the wards in our absence. The signs of intrusion were faint and easy to miss, perhaps, but evident, nonetheless.”

Here, Harry threw an unpleasant look in Snape’s direction, as though hoping the Potions Professor would choose that moment to out himself and own up to treachery.

“Upon questioning, Kreacher admitted that he _had_ noticed the disturbance but had been disinclined to investigate it; he assumed the intruder was one of our own.” He waved off the incredulous cries, “I am well aware of his past indiscretions and took his earlier untruths into consideration.

“Suffice it to say, I immediately sought the help of Professors Snape and McGonagall; together, we strengthened the wards on the property and added a few of our own. We are certain,” he tugged lightly on his beard, “that it is secure once more. However, in the interest of safety, we will keep it on as a last resort. Instead, Molly and Arthur have graciously offered the Burrow as the new Headquarters for the time being. Once we are sure the danger had passed, I suspect we will return to Grimmauld Place.”

Ginny smirked at Ron with transparent smugness, and she watched in delight as the tips of his ears reddened under her gaze.

“Which brings us to the other matter of what to do with you three,” the Headmaster said with a tilt of his head. “I assume you are willing to be inducted into the Order of the Phoenix?”

Hermione swallowed thickly and nodded her delayed agreement, ignoring the pointed looks coming from Harry and Ron. With the dip of his chin, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat, gesturing for the trio to do the same.

“Wands out, if you will.”

With each wand fished from various pockets and held out towards the Headmaster, the older man began to speak, his voice resonating throughout the kitchen. “Do you, Harry James Potter, vow to uphold the ideals of the Order to the best of your abilities?”

His expression solemn, he replied, “I do.”

“And do you vow to protect your fellow members whenever possible?”

“I do,” he echoed, watching in awe as the glow emitted by his wand grew with each promise.

Dumbledore waved a final rune in the air as he spoke, “Finally, do you vow to protect the secrets of the Order by any means necessary, no matter the cost?”

As Harry affirmed the last of his vows, warmth suffused his body and a golden band of light wrapped around his wrist, embedding itself in his skin. He exhaled shakily and drew his fingers over the rune shimmering from his arm, watching as it slowly faded into nothing. Ron, who seemed unable to contain his enthusiasm, spoke each vow with a voice louder than necessary and only just managed to keep from bouncing on each foot as the Headmaster completed the ritual.

Finally, Professor Dumbledore’s eyes found Hermione’s and he gave her a curious look, as though he had peered into her mind and thumbed through her thoughts. As Hermione grew ever uncomfortable, the Headmaster nodded almost imperceptibly to himself and walked around the table, coming to a stop in front of her.

In a quiet voice meant only for her, he asked, “Do you, Hermione Jean Granger, vow to uphold the ideals of the Order to the best of your abilities?”

After a brief moment of hesitation, she answered, “I do.”

“And do you vow to protect the integrity of the Order of the Phoenix, even in the face of insurmountable odds?”

Frowning at the change in dialogue, she nodded reluctantly, “I do.” Warily, she watched as the Headmaster traced a new rune over her chest and abdomen, chanting some unknown incantation under his breath.

“Finally,” his blue gaze seemed to pierce through her, “will you, to the best of your ability, protect your fellow members, even on pain of death?”

Startled, Hermione took a step back and lowered her wand, “What?” She felt herself sweat nervously under his regard and repeated, “What? I… I don’t understand.”

“Miss Granger, if you are unwilling, I could–”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m fine. I just…” She glanced at Harry and Ron, who’d clearly strained to hear the ritual and wore matching expressions of confusion. Looking back at Professor Dumbledore, “I will – I think.”

For a moment, a great fatigue shone through the Headmaster’s expression and he cast the final rune, giving her a reassuring smile as strands of silver wrapped around her forearm. The bands stretched into her shoulder and over her chest until they encased all of her. Briefly, Hermione seemed iridescent, the silvery glow throwing the kitchen into stark relief. Eventually, the light faded into her skin and she examined her hands, suddenly feeling as ordinary as ever.

“Professor,” Harry started, rising from his chair, “what was–”

“Potter,” Snape barked at him, “do shut up. Had we wished to explain ourselves, we would have done so already.”

Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded, “We?”

“How refreshing,” he remarked tartly, “it seems the Know-It-All does not, in fact, know everything.”

“Severus, please,” Professor McGonagall chastised him in a clipped tone, “that was unnecessary.”

Professor Dumbledore patted Hermione’s arm gently, “All will be revealed in due time, Miss Granger. All we ask is that you trust us.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Hermione found herself exceedingly pleased to take her leave of the Burrow. In an effort to avoid the relentless probing from the boys, she had been forced into hiding for the remainder of her stay. As such, when the time came to depart for Hogwarts, Hermione had bid the Weasleys’ an over-enthusiastic farewell and Apparated gladly to the wrought iron gates of her former residence. When the Master of Potions appeared over the hill to allow her entrance into the school, she almost wept with relief.

While Hermione had tried to remain understanding of the boys’ natural curiosity, the fact remained that she could barely make sense of it herself. She certainly didn’t appreciate that the Professors remained infuriatingly tight-lipped with each visit, asking only that she continued to trust them. As it was, the more she considered it, the less certain she was that she didn’t, in fact, regret taking the vows.

In the evening following the meeting, Hermione had stood before her mirror and studied her reflection avidly, wondering if she looked any different after all the fuss Professor Dumbledore had made over her. Regrettably, she looked as plain and _frizzy_ as ever, with no marked change in appearance save for the startled expression she still wore.

The next morning, still somewhat shaken by the night before, Hermione had been immediately sprung upon by her friends who couldn’t fathom that she’d had _nothing to do with it_. Over the remainder of her holiday, their questions ranged from mildly annoying to downright insulting, after which any prospect of spending time in their company became as appealing as gouging her eyes out.

Rather expectedly, Ginny had taken to freezing her out of conversations, bitter that she had not only been passed over as another candidate for initiation, but that Hermione had received an individually catered ritual. To add insult to injury, Ginny refused to acknowledge Hermione’s earnest claims that she was as bewildered as the rest of them; instead, the young redhead took to ignoring her outright.

Mercifully, Fred and George remained unchanged in their opinion of her, and she found solace in their company whenever she managed to evade Ron and Harry’s aggravating presence. Molly and Arthur, much to her embarrassment, had made frequent and fervent apologies for their children, never once accepting Hermione’s assurances that she was unbothered and would _sincerely_ appreciate it if they’d stop. The remainder of the Weasleys’, determined to ignore the awkward silences and tense atmosphere, treated her with over-the-top cheery dispositions, making the last of her stay exceedingly unbearable.

“Miss Granger,” Snape nodded to her as he unlocked the gate. “I trust you had a pleasant trip.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his manner, having expected some sort of cutting comment about her apparel or state of hair. As she stepped past him, she replied, “As pleasant as an Apparition could be, sir.”

“Quite.”

The rest of the walk down to the castle was held in complete, awkward silence as Hermione struggled to keep up with the Professor’s wide gait. Each long step seemed to require two of her own and she wondered briefly whether it wouldn’t be more efficient to jog at his side. Not wanting to look completely ridiculous, however, Hermione tried to smother her out-of-breath wheeze as best as she could, all while attempting to maintain a believably dignified air.

Finally, as they swept into the dungeons, Professor Snape addressed her quietly, “As my apprentice, you will be residing in the quarters alongside my own; Headmaster Dumbledore thought it sensible to join the two chambers and, as such, we will be sharing a living space.”

“Oh?” she squeaked.

“Indeed,” he drawled with a moue of distaste. “I only ask, Miss Granger, that you remain respectful of the property therein, as well as to keep your questions and comments short and concise; perhaps then you and I might escape these three years relatively unscathed.”

“Of course, sir,” she replied with an edge, glaring into the distance ahead of her.

Ignoring her tone, he continued, “We have a number of crucial ingredients to purchase and will be heading into to town for them tomorrow. Be prepared to leave at seven o’ clock precisely; I have no tolerance for tardiness.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here we are, Miss Granger. Your wand,” he held out an expectant hand.

Immediately suspicious of his motives, Hermione had half a mind to clutch the stick of vine to her chest and stomp her foot in defiance; instead, she dropped it into his outstretched palm with exaggerated hesitancy. He rolled his eyes hard enough that Hermione almost believed she’d heard it and waved it once over the portrait entrance before handing it back.

“You are now keyed to my wards and are welcome to come and go as you please.” He held up his hand, quickly rethinking his last declaration, “With the exception of bringing anyone else with you. Messrs Potter and Weasley are not to step foot over the threshold, am I understood?”

She pursed her lips, “Clearly, Professor Snape.”

“Very well,” he nodded and pushed the portrait ajar. “After you, Miss Granger.”

Once they’d stepped inside and he’d given Hermione the opportunity to look about, Snape pointed to the doorway on their right, “Your room is through there. I trust you will find everything in order. Should you require anything, inform one of the house elves and they will be happy to retrieve it for you.” He dipped his head, “Until seven o’ clock, Miss Granger.”


End file.
